A Tomb In The Earth
by Ostercy
Summary: Lara tells six stories which involve - among other things - a visit to Mars, her wedding, Natla after the Scion and Lara in the afterlife. Continuity One Lara Croft
1. Chapter 1

A Tomb In The Earth by Ostercy

A Tomb In The Earth by Ostercy

**Chapter One: Olympus Mons **

1. House arrest

I cracked open the shotgun and tipped the empty cartridges onto the gravel. The Chief Superintendent was still explaining the legal situation to me on the mobile phone tucked against my ear. I took a large sip from my Scotch and picked up two fresh cartridges from the garden table next to my lounger.

"Pull!" I said, and Winston let fly with two more clay pigeons. There was a cry of pain from the phone as the shotgun went off and the pigeons disintegrated in mid air.

"Miss Croft," said the Chief Superintendent. "Lara. Please could you stop doing that? You nearly perforated my eardrum."

"I'm sorry, Chief Superintendent," I said. "There's so very little to do around here now that you've got me under house arrest, and I'm very bored."

"It's not my fault that they're trying to get you extradited."

"So to sum up," I said, emptying the shotgun again. "I can't have my passport or driving license. I'm stuck here. And when you said you were a great friend of my father's, and that should I ever need anything I should call you - you were being a bit economical with the _verité_."

"But Lara ... you're wanted for suspected manslaughter, theft, vandalism and the killing of endangered species in three different countries. You only just escaped a fatwa."

"So much for the old boy's network," I said. "Pull!"

There was a muttered obscenity from the phone as I fired. "Look, Lara. You're supposed to be a scholar. You've got access to the Net, a huge library ...couldn't you do some quiet research until we hear from the Home Secretary? There's no real use in ringing me up every day is there?"

I sighed. "Talk to you tomorrow, Chief Superintendent," I said, and put down the phone. "Winston. Get me some more Scotch."

"Yes, Miss."

I reloaded the shotgun and took out one of the windows on the first floor of the Croft mansion. Winston flinched and then carried on his way.

I had difficulty sleeping as usual. The Croft mansion generally smells of smoke, especially my room. The problem with having chimneys riddled with secret passages is that it can ruin the updraft, and since the old chimney sweep had died I'd been forced to try and keep them clean myself. I kept resolving to scrap the real fire in my room and to put in gas, but I guess I'm an old romantic.

It seemed like about four in the morning and I couldn't tell if I was really asleep and dreaming about being awake. A movement in the room attracted my attention and then there was a figure seated in the armchair in front of the fire.

"How are you, darling?" said the figure.

I sat up in bed. "Daddy," I said.

"Been getting into trouble I see," said Father. "I managed to stay out of trouble at your age."

"I seem to remember you taking advantage of the Japanese invasion of China to dig a few things up," I said. "Plus, there's your scrapes with the Nazis."

"Touché," he said, lighting his pipe.

"Why are you here, Daddy?" I got out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown. Of course I knew it must be some sort of dream. Since I'd bought the mansion from him, he hadn't been back to the UK.

"Just wanted to remind you about something, darling. Come and sit here by my feet."

"You look well," I said.

Father puffed and smiled. "So do you, Lara." He planted a kiss on my forehead. The smell of tobacco and tweed and old-fashioned aftershave made my eyes sting a little.

"So?" I said, taking his hand.

"The grounds," he said, thoughtfully. "I never really finished my survey, did I?"

I remembered the exploratory sections we'd dug on the back lawn before the final term at the finishing school. I'd been an avid little girl, breathless with excitement. It was like digging for treasure.

I smiled and kissed his fingers. "I'll have a look," I promised. "After all, I'm not going anywhere."

It was two days later. I rolled over in bed and picked up the phone. "Two teas, two sets of toast and the _Times_ please Winston," I said, sleepily. I left Joe the glazier asleep and set the bath running.

Joe had come to mend the windows that I'd shot. "Hello, darlin'," he had called from his ladder. He was scraping the old putty from the frame of the first floor window.

"Morning," I said uncertainly. I couldn't quite shake the idea that it was odd to be addressed in a familiar fashion by tradespersons. "I don't suppose you could clean out my chimney could you?"

"What ... boyfriend away?" said Joe, winking and laughing uproariously.

"Was that some sort of sexual innuendo?" I said.

Joe's face fell. "Sorry, Miss. Just being flippant."

I went to the bottom of the ladder and looked up at his naked torso. "I don't mind," I said mildly. "As it happens I am a bit bored."

At breakfast we were joined by my colleague, Dr. Stella Oldfield.

"Sleep well?" I said, accepting another of Winston's cups of tea.

"OK," said Stella. "Smells of smoke a bit in the guest room. And what about you two?"

Joe chuckled and helped himself to a pile of fried food from the silverware on the sideboard. "We didn't get much sleep," he said.

Stella and I exchanged glances. Joe obviously felt the need to brag about the obvious to convince himself he wasn't dreaming.

"I don't know how you manage to eat all that," said Stella. "I only have to look at something fatty and I put on pounds." She was still in that stage of her mid-twenties where one is convinced that men give a stuff about a bit of extra flesh.

"So ... we'll start the geophysics today, shall we?" I said.

"I had a look at your father's notes and the old maps and I think I know roughly where'd we lay down some exploratory trenches."

"You can help with the digging if you like," I said to Joe.

"Hey!" said Joe. "This is supposed to be a holiday, isn't it?"

"We have a mechanical digger ..." I said.

Joe's face lit up. "A digger? I've always wanted to have a go on one of those."

"Typical boy," I said.

We were gathered around Stella's laptop on the back lawn looking at the geophysics survey.

"It's below the level of your father's excavations," said Stella.

I restrained my excitement. "What is it?" I asked. "A large rock formation? A segment of stone floor?"

"It's shaped like a bomb," said Joe. "Are you sure it's not something from World War II?"

Winston cleared his throat. "There was an army training school here during the war, Miss," he said.

"But look at the scale," said Stella.

"Exactly," I said. "This is more the size of a bomber than a bomb."

"Maybe it's a large church," said Stella.

By late afternoon we'd pegged out the site and started on the trenches. Joe was in hog heaven at the controls of the mechanical digger.

"Be careful!" shouted Stella as he dug the scoop into the earth. "For Christ's sake."

"I am," he shouted back. "I don't want to be blown sky high, do I?"

"We need a professional," said Stella to me, _sotto voce_.

"Leave the boy alone," I said. Joe amused me.

"This isn't one of your blow-it-up-with-a-couple-of-sticks-of-dynamite jobs. This is England, not some third world country. Archaeology matters."

"OK," I said. "Let me take over from him for a while."

Stella looked at me. "Great," she said.

Trench C had ceased to look like a trench any more after I passed the six-foot mark and sides began to collapse. Stella had gone inside for a lie down after shouting at me about making a bomb crater, not a dig. Joe was sunbathing and drinking beer. He at least had a sense of fun. The top of the digger was almost below ground level and I was taking a warm satisfaction at having destroyed part of the grounds when the scoop hit something solid. The digger engine strained and there was a weird vibration. I switched off the motor, but the vibration continued.

"What the hell is that?" said Joe, scrambling to his feet. His beer can tipped over and the beer soaked into the lawn. Soil was being jiggled from the sides of my new crater, and settling around the tracks of the digger.

"Whoops," I said, and prepared to leap clear. At that moment the ground beneath gave way and I and the digger fell into the darkness. I screamed.

When I came round I was coughing and there was a tremendous pain in my leg. Earth was still trickling down from the hole about six feet about my head, but the light was not sufficient for me to see where I was. I was still seated in the digger, but both it and my leg were tilted at an unnatural angle. The dashboard lights were still on, and so I flicked the headlight switch.

The beams revealed dust motes, and then some kind of room or corridor stretching away from me. I looked behind, and saw a similar view, only less well lit.

"Lara!" Joe's head appeared in the gap above and more earth showered down. "Are you all right?"

"Keep away from the edge," I said. "You'll fall in. Go and get the others, and get some ropes or something."

"Are you OK?"

"I think I broke my leg. "

Joe let out a stream of expletives. More earth showered onto my head.

"Oh, go and get on with it man," I said, wiping soil from my face. "Stop dithering. And get my backpack and the shotgun from Winston while you're at it."

I peered into the gloom. My eyes were getting used to the darkness. The walls of the corridor looked artificial. It was hard to say what they were made of, but they had a surface that suggested a relief of patterns. They twinkled slightly.

Using both my hands, I tried to move my leg. It was broken, but not dislocated.

Then I heard a dull clunk. It was coming from the corridor in front of me, a long way away in the darkness. There was a second clunk, and then a third. The floor vibrated slightly. The clunks turned into footsteps, getting nearer.

I looked around for a weapon, a spade, anything.

"Joe!" I called. "Anyone?"

I could now see a shape in the darkness. It was about man height and humanoid. It sounded heavy and its skin glittered like silver. There was a sound of breathing.

2. Lassie

"It was a Cyberman," said Joe, some time later.

"It looks more like a Mycenaean funerary mask to me," said Stella. She was still very pale.

"How does that feel, Miss?" said Winston, wrapping the last piece of plaster of Paris around my leg.

"Pass me the crutches," I said. I'd broken my leg so many times that we had the crutches on permanent loan from the local Cottage Hospital.

I'd been stuck down in the tunnel with the "Cyberman" clunking towards me. I'd looked down at the digger controls - there was still power.

"Come on," I said, turning the ignition key. The engine turned over but didn't start. I tried again two or three times before the "Cyberman" reached me.

The "Cyberman" stood in front of the digger scoop looking up at me. I thought I could see movement behind the eye slots of its silver mask. Its metal body ticked like a cooling radiator and there was the whine of a servo as it turned his head. It smelt like a kicked-in television.

I reached down for the controls. The digger jerked, as the scoop rose and caught the "Cyberman" under the chin. Its head became wedged between the spikes on the lip of the scoop and it was lifted off the ground. The legs kicked wildly and I could see it trying to gain a purchase with its hands. There was a harsh metallic coughing sound and some metallic screaming noises. The neck was obviously not designed to carry the weight of the body. The head flew free and landed in my lap.

"See," said Joe, turning the head in the sunlight. "Metal sticky-out-bits on each side of the head. Just like those silver hoses on Cybermen."

"Who needs a Glitter Gun?" I said.

"Thank God I remembered to pack a torch for a change," I said. I'd gotten heartily sick of having to use emergency flares just to see where I was going. I'd strapped the Maglight to the end of the shotgun with masking tape, and was hobbling along on my crutches with the gun under one arm.

"We shouldn't be doing this," said Stella from above our heads.

"You're right," I said. "Stay up there."

"She's got a point," said Joe, one step behind me.

"Go back if you like," I said, "although it wouldn't be very gallant of you."

"Er ... right," said Joe.

The corridor didn't seem quite as big by torchlight. It curved slightly and I could see the end. The "Cyberman" must have been standing there in the darkness. I had no idea what had set it off. Maybe it had perceived a digger crashing through the roof as some sort of threat.

"This is like below decks on a cross-channel ferry," said Joe. "Lots of ducting embedded in the walls."

"Maybe the _Herald of Free Enterprise_ sailed into the Bermuda Triangle and ended up in my lawn," I said.

"Now you're being silly," said Joe.

We reached the end of the corridor and suddenly it looked more like a door than a wall.

"Interesting," I said, playing the torchlight over the surface.

"Pictures," said Joe, glancing over his shoulder.

"It's not my area, but that looks like Linear B to me."

"Is that a computer language?"

"Similar," I said, "but used by the forerunners of the Ancient Greeks."

"They had computers?"

"After Atlantis nothing surprises me much any more," I said.

"Wow," said Joe. "You mean you've been to the States?"

Fortunately at that moment there was one of those "servo" sounds. The door in front of us was opening. I pointed the shotgun through the opening at groin level in case another "Cyberman" decided to grace us with its presence. Not they looked particularly vulnerable at the groin level ... it was a girl thing. Besides, you try aiming a Smith and Weston 12 gauge double-barreled shotgun on crutches. Beyond there was a flickering of light like a faulty fluorescent tube.

"Looks like the bridge on the _Nostromo_," I said. "Cluttered, bad lighting, no pastels."

The flickering wasn't confined to the general lighting. Coloured indicators and panels were coming to life all around the room. Presumably there are a limited number of ways to design a flight deck, and this looked just like a flight deck, or perhaps a ship's bridge. My tense trigger finger was threatening to discharge the shotgun at any second. I was expecting crew and I wasn't expecting a welcome.

"It's is a spacecraft, isn't it?" whispered Joe.

"Unless it's an underground theme pub," I said.

At that moment a tall glistening piece of apparatus in the corner of the room decided to do something. I saw the movement and swung round on a crutch. It wasn't a successful manoeuvre; I stumbled and one barrel of the gun went off. There was a green burst from the glittering machine - I was reminded of a force field - and then a red ray scanned me from head to foot. It hesitated at my injured leg and there was a buzzing, like "bit" language rendered in light, as information was relayed back to the machine.

"What should we do?" said Joe.

"You should run as fast as possible back to the surface," I said.

"No way."

"It's your life."

A small chunk of metal detached itself from the glittering machine and floated towards me. I debated discharging the remaining shotgun barrel, but that seemed pointless. The floating thing started to nudge my shoulder.

"Shall I hit it?" said Joe.

"Go on then," I said.

Joe threw a haymaker, there was a clang and Joe was left nursing his hand. The floating thing still pushed me insistently in the direction of the glittering machine.

"It's like bloody Lassie," I said.

"Lassie" was getting annoyed. A panel in its surface sprang open and a gauntlet closed on my forearm. I whacked the gauntlet with the butt of the shotgun. "Lassie" responded by injecting something into my skin. I lost the will to struggle and let myself by dragged towards the glittering machine. Joe tried to follow, shouting, but the machines had erected a wall of light that kept him back. I didn't care much.

The glittering machine gathered me into its metallic arms and began to remove my clothing with laser knifes. A flexible tube was inserted into my throat before I could cry out.

3. My Breitling altimeter wristwatch

I lost my senses for a while. I ceased to register what was happening. The strongest impression I have was of the kind of hot light that one gets in a sunbed. There was nothing painful, not even the intrusive probes.

Whatever moonjuice "Lassie" had dosed me with was good stuff; I was relaxed all over.

I came to and the machine released me. I could stand. I rested my weight on my injured leg. There was no discomfort. It was as if I had never been hurt. This shock was enough to make me feel faint.

The glittering machine has dressed me in a shiny semi-transparent catsuit affair. I felt like Barbarella.

"Lassie" appeared. It held out my shotgun, my boots, my wristwatch, my rucksack and my clothes, all repaired. I looked at the neat pile of clothing with faint disbelief. There were no signs of mending - they were perfect, and clean.

"Quite the mother's little helper," I said to the glittering machine, stuffing the clothes into the rucksack and strapping my wristwatch on over the sleeve of the catsuit. "I'll change back into my things later, if that's OK with you. Unless we're going to some sort of party ... "

I became aware of a noise; it was Joe shouting at me, muffled by the wall of green light. I gave him a thumbs-up and he smote his forehead in a mime of exasperation. Meanwhile "Lassie" buzzed up again and handed me a see-through tube containing what looked like blocks of clear blue soap.

"Thanks," I said, dryly.

The wall of green light dropped and Joe rushed forward. "Lara!"

"Calm down."

"What did it do?"

"Fixed my leg."

"No shit ..."

Joe gave me a quick kiss and stepped back, looking me up and down.

"Is it see-through?" I asked, nodding down at my new outfit.

Joe blushed.

"Why is it that at moments of high danger men think that it's appropriate to back me into a corner and look at my breasts?"

Joe blushed even more.

"I want Stella in here," I said. "I want her to look at that Linear B. I'm beginning to think that I took the head off that Cyberman rather prematurely. I guess a lifetime of watching video nasties has made me a bit too prone to the use of unnecessary violence."

"It's not Linear B," said Stella, peering in the beam of the Maglight. "Not entirely. "Some of it looks more like Linear A."

"So - completely indecipherable," I said.

"It's been added onto the surface - painted on. I think it's graffiti," said Joe.

"Looks like we're not the first visitors."

"These three symbols," said Stella, pointing. "They're probably Linear B. A-RE-JA."

"Which is?"

"It's been postulated to be a name. Of a deity. Perhaps an ancient forerunner of Ares."

"I'm an Aries," said Joe.

"No," said Stella, patiently. "A-R-E-S. The Romans called him Mars."

"The God of War," said Joe.

"Exactly. Very good."

I cleared my throat. "Anything else?"

"DA-PU-RI-TO-JO," read Stella. "That could mean something like a maze or a labyrinth."

"OK."

"And there's these five symbols. DI-PI-SI-JO-I. This is quite famous."

"The Thirsty Ones," I said.

"Very good, Dr. Croft. Granville-Smith has suggested that this is a reference to the Dead coming to drink at a blood-filled trench. As in the Odyssey."

I pondered. The mention of gods of war and the dead wasn't filling me with confidence. "Let's get out of here and regroup."

"We can have a nice cup of tea and you can change out of your disco outfit," said Stella.

"But only if you want to," said Joe.

"Funny," I said.

Sometimes you just have to go for it. Was I confident when I entered the Temple of Xian? Not particularly, given the legends about the tomb of the First Emperor of China. The legends spoke of booby traps, self-firing bows and arrows, rivers of toxic mercury. I'd gone in anyway, and for what? The Dagger of Xian was just a bauble. They say that some people's brains have a lower level of serotonin (or is it endorphin?) that makes them eternally on the hunt for an adrenal fix. "Head the ball types" as Joe would have put it. The Dagger of Xian and the fragments of the Atlantean Scion and the mounted T. Rex head and the rest. Any of them would have brought me instant fame, but they resided in a secret room in the mansion, barely looked at by me. I was like a child that enjoyed opening new toys, but then I never played with them again. I made a mental note "Must get rid of Joe" as we walked back down the corridor to the digger and the hole in the roof. We'd had our fun.

I've thought about what happened next and I guess that the "spaceship", having already identified me as the "designated pilot", decided that it was time to leave. Joe and I were giving Stella a bunk up at the hole in the roof, with Winston pulling ineffectually from above. Stella had just scrambled back up to crater level when the "spacecraft" came to life.

I don't know if you've ever experienced an earthquake, but sometimes the ground moves suddenly under your feet like the back of a dragon. I fell, Joe fell, the digger shifted and Stella screamed. I crashed onto my hip but my "disco outfit" somehow absorbed the shock. There was a roaring sound.

I recovered first. "Stella!" I shouted. "Winston! Get out of the crater or get down here!" I had a hunch what was going to happen. I scrambled to my feet and jumped for the lip of the hole. I caught the edge with my fingertips and pulled myself up into the open air. Stella and Winston were wide-eyed with terror clutching onto each other like the Babes in the Wood. I had just got to my feet when the earth below us rose thirty feet into the air. The sudden acceleration forced me to my knees.

"Get over here!" I shouted, holding out my hand to Stella. "Quickly."

I had just caught hold of her fingers when the ground tilted through sixty degrees. I could see the enormous gash in the lawn that we had left behind. A shower of earth and plants rained down and began to splatter onto the glass roof of the swimming pool as we drifted sideways over the mansion, still rising.

I was hanging onto the lip of the hole with one hand and Stella with the other. Winston had no such purchase. With a thin cry he fell through the glass roof into the chlorinated water below, the pieces of his tea set splashing around him. We rose further, and the tilt of the "ground" evened out.

"Now!" I shouted and pulled Stella and myself into the hole. We fell onto the pile of loose earth in the corridor.

The three of us looked at each other but anything we might have said was drowned by a roar. There was a massive acceleration upward that pinned us to the floor. The wind howled in through the hole in the roof and filled the corridor with flying earth. Stella screamed (again). I wished that she wouldn't. I tend to save my screaming for when falling from a great height. Maybe she had a point.

I struggled to bring my wristwatch to a position where I could see it. My arm was very heavy and I was having difficulty drawing a breath. The watch had been custom made by Breitling for me in a moment of extravagance. It contained an altimeter and a device for reading barometric pressure. It was particularly useful for diving and mountain climbing, but I'd never envisaged this particular situation.

The pressure was dropping - 900 millibars, 880, 860 - and our altitude was increasing - 1 km, 3, 5. I seemed to recall that the watch measured up to 20 km, and was just wondering at what height a person would pass out due to lack of oxygen, when I passed out due to lack of oxygen.

4. Father again

When I came to, "Lassie" had saved the day. The hole in the roof was a hatch, and "Lassie" had closed it.

Then it had applied a couple of the blocks of "clear blue soap" to Joe and Stella, who had been haemorrhaging. It appeared that the glittering machine had made the most of its intimate session with me, and had coded the blue soap accordingly. Joe and Stella were soon repaired.

Something entirely different had happened to me during the emergency. I reached up to wipe my mouth - my face was itching - and encountered something hard. I struggled to a sitting position, spluttering, and tried to remove whatever it was from my face. The disco outfit had grown a mask, presumably after sensing my physiological response to low pressure, and was supplying me with 100 oxygen. I was experiencing a feeling of intense benevolence. I must be tripping, I thought. Too unreal. I'd have to explain to the glittering machine about the virtues of a nitrogen-oxygen mix.

As for the others - unfortunately the blue soap didn't contain Valium, otherwise it would have been perfect. Stella was screaming incoherently and seemed to be demanding an explanation. She hit Joe on the biceps so that he paused in his chosen task of rubbing his stubble and doing the thousand yard stare.

I shouted at Stella, but my voice was muffled. I started swearing and tried to get my fingers around the edge of the mask, but I couldn't find where it ended and my skin began. I leapt to my feet and - soaring into the air - banged my head on the ceiling. I was suddenly a lot lighter.

Fortunately for my state of mind at that moment the mask chose to retract itself into the collar of the disco outfit. I landed gently on my feet and yelled "Stella! Shut up!" It made me feel better, at any rate.

"Thank goodness I've got my bag," said Stella, retrieving a tissue to scrub at the dried blood under her nose.

"Thank goodness," I said.

"You haven't got a fag by any chance?" said Joe.

"You haven't got your portable computer by any chance?" I said.

"Oh I get it," said Joe. "You're going to interface the computer with the spacecraft like in Independence

Day and fly us home."

"I think the designers of this ship had more sense than to buy their operating system from Acorn," I said.

"No - I want the geophysics survey."

"Here," said Stella, handing me the computer. "The password is 'bunnikins'. Don't ask."

As I had recalled, the ship was the size of a church. "So what's in the rest of it?" I asked, shutting the computer. "I think we need to know."

At the other end of the corridor was another door. Behind the door was what looked like a lift.

"You two go back to the flight deck and see what you can see. A map, a window, a radio, a steering wheel, anything."

"I'm coming with you," said Joe, putting his hands on his hips in an assertive way.

"Is that you, John Wayne?" I said, adopting a gunfighter's stance and a cornpoke American accent. "Look, Joe - just stay with Stella ... "

"Lara ..."

"... or I'll shoot you in the leg and feed you to that machine that stitched me up."

The lift behaved like a lift. The doors shut, the lift descended, I floated a few inches off the ground, the lift stopped, I settled back to the floor, the doors opened. The silence and the low gravity made it impossible to tell how far or fast we'd gone. I wondered if the mask would snap back on - for all I knew below decks was airless - but it didn't.

I stepped out into the study of the Croft mansion. I'm not prone to attacks of the vapours, but the sight of my father standing in front of a roaring fire with his pipe in one hand and a glass of Johnnie Walker Red Label in the other made my head swim.

"Afternoon, darling," said my father with a faint smile.

I looked at him and the room. The study was not a complete room, but had one side missing like the set of a film. Instead of the study wall there was a green light force field, and beyond that was a tall shape that I didn't recognise.

"Drink, Lara?"

"I'll ... have a Scotch." I stepped forward and touched one of the leather armchairs. It felt solid and smelt real. I sat down in it and, leaning the shotgun against the side, put my feet up on a delicate oriental coffee table.

Father glanced at my feet, and brought over a glass. "I'm not your real father you know," he said.

"No shit."

"There's no need for that sort of language," he said mildly, "and do you have to put your feet on that? It's a priceless antique."

"Spookily realistic," I said, sipping my Scotch. "What is it about you expat types and Johnnie Walker? It's crap."

Father clicked his teeth in annoyance and started to bang his pipe out over the fire.

"So - let me guess," I said. "You've been cooked up by some sort of mechanism on this ship using my memories."

"That's a rather clever deduction," said Father, amused. He twinkled at me as he fumbled fresh tobacco out of its tin.

"You got me to dig you up with the Banquo act, and now you're going to tell me why."

"Bravo! They certainly don't breeds idiots in the Croft family."

"Still the same patronising old bastard then?"

"Oh ... I'm not real, as I said. Just an amalgam of your old memories. And your old prejudices."

I glowered at him and drained my glass. "Touché," I said.

"The thing is this," he said, seating himself and lighting his pipe. "We've received a distress call. An automated distress call, but a distress call none-the-less."

"And 'we' are?"

"Oh ... well there's no point in giving you the real name. You always were terrible at Greats."

"Humour me."

"How about ... the Olympians? That's as good a name as any."

"As in Mount Olympus? The Olympian gods."

Father gazed at me for a few seconds. "Oh, I see," he said eventually. "Well I suppose so."

"Let me fill in the gaps," I said. "The Olympians ... ancient spacefaring race, bla bla bla, came a cropper millennia ago, bla bla bla, racial memories translated into mythology, bla bla bla ..."

"I think that you've been reading too much H.P.Lovecraft," said Father.

"Now you're just straining for realism. You should have said - watching too much X-Files."

"Touché," said Father. "But you're correct about the Olympians, in broad outline. Care for some more of my ghastly Scotch?" The Scotch flowed like treacle in the low gravity.

"So you must have come across the Atlanteans?"

Father laughed. He nodded at the shape beyond the force field. "That's one of Natla's specimens through there. There were originally two, but one got loose and was eventually killed by the natives. We were taking the other home for analysis, but ..."

I swiveled around and gazed at the shape, the hairs on my neck stirring. "Is it dead?"

"What's the word?" Father puffed on his pipe. "Stasis, I think. Good Greek word. That's unless one of your travelling companions on the bridge presses the wrong button."

I put a hand on my shotgun. "Hide like a rhinoceros," continued Father. "That wouldn't even slow it down. Need an elephant gun I should think."

"Thanks," I said.

"Back to the matter at hand. You can't get to Mars in one go. We need to stop off for fuel."

"I'm going to Mars?"

"Olympus Mons, to be precise. Amusing coincidence, isn't it?"

"I'd be very surprised if it was."

"Well, you're right of course, but that's another story."

"And we need to refuel. So where are we refueling, exactly?"

Father drew his breath in over his teeth and turned to gaze into the fire. "Now that's the tricky part," he said.

"By tricky, you mean dangerous."

"Precisely," said Father. He sighed. "Which is why you're the best person for the job. Lucky we were in your neck of the woods."

"Another coincidence."

"Yes ... actually."

"And what if I don't want to go to Mars?"

"No choice now, my girl. Barely had enough fuel to take off."

"But presumably there's enough to land?"

"Ye-es."

"So land us back on Earth."

Father poked at his pipe with a matchstick. "Well, I am. Sort of," he said.

I put down my whiskey glass and picked up my shotgun. "You're going to explain, no doubt," I said.

"What's a good name for where we're going?" he said, looking at the gun with amusement. "Something suitably Lovecraftian. How about - ur-Earth."

"Ur-Earth?"

"Yes. Earth's doppelganger, if you like. On the exactly opposite side of the sun. Earth's evil twin."

"Evil? Since when did you start using words like evil ...?"

I was hoping for more information, but unfortunately at that moment Father disappeared. The study disappeared, my Scotch disappeared and the chair I was sitting on disappeared, sending me floating to the floor. As I scrabbled around trying to get my bearings in the semi-darkness, I noticed that the green force field had disappeared as well.

I lay very still, trying not to breathe. Something snorted and then bellowed in the darkness. I winced. The shape stepped into a patch of light. It was about ten feet tall with the torso of a man and the head of a bull, and had the freshly flayed complexion that was the trademark of all of Natla's creations.

Somebody must have pressed the wrong button.

5. Minotaur

I wondered if the Minotaur responded to movement like a bull. It seemed fortunate that I wasn't wearing red. Lying flat on one's belly is not the best position to start sprinting from, but I was reluctant to move a muscle. I turned my head very slowly and squinted at the lift door behind me. It was shut, and it seemed unlikely that the creature would allow me to wait for the lift to return.

The Minotaur was drawing long breaths in through its nostrils. It stopped hunting to and fro and looked directly at me, its nostrils flaring. It could smell me, despite the fact that it was thirty feet away and there was no breeze. It began to paw the ground and snort. I could feel the movement through the deck.

Despite the low gravity it was a heavy beast.

I could sense that it was going to charge and I didn't fancy being trampled beneath those huge hooves, so I got very slowly to my feet.

"Easy, big boy ..." I murmured, taking a step backwards. The shotgun was lying near my left foot, and I

tried to reach down for it without talking my eyes off the Minotaur.

He didn't like the look of what I was doing. Throwing his head back he bellowed. It was ear splitting.

Then he put down his head and charged.

I grabbed up the shotgun and taking aim, fired. If I hit him, he didn't notice. Father had been right. The Minotaur was on me almost before I had recovered from the recoil. I did a sideways somersault and felt one horn graze my foot. I hit the floor and did a twisting roll so that I ended up facing him.

I'd been hoping that his inertia would cause him to skid, or to have difficulty stopping, but it appeared that having two legs instead of four gave him better control and a smaller turning circle than a bull. He was already charging again as I faced him. I didn't have time to move so I ducked. His snout passed above me and I tried to head butt him in the stomach. Unfortunately for me his six-pack might as well have been a brick wall. It was like being smacked over the head with a bat. My teeth and neck were jarred and I was dazed. I fell to the ground stunned.

His hooves were crashing down each side of me. I squirmed and writhed to avoid being stood on, hardly able to see. I seem to remember him standing still and bellowing. One hand came down and pinned me by my neck to the floor. I could see him pulling back his head prior to skewering me through the chest.

I found myself with a good view of his lower torso. He was naked and rather frighteningly endowed.

"Let's hope bullock bollocks aren't armour-plated," I thought and kicked him as hard as I could in the balls.

I'm not entirely sure what a stuck pig squealing sounds like, but the Minotaur made a similar noise and limped away with its fingers clamped over its wedding tackle.

I stood up and ran balletically for the lift. "Father," I yelled, hunting around in my pack for more shotgun shells. "Where are you? Turn the bloody force field back on." I stood in front of the lift doors but they didn't open. There was no lift button to press. Maybe the cretins on the flight deck had turned the lift off as well.

The Minotaur was quiet on the other side of the room, but I could see as the seconds passed that it was recovering. I had a hunch that it would be - as our American friends would put it - "pissed". I looked around quickly, but there was no place to climb up out of its reach, no other exit, and no obvious place to hide.

"How the hell did Theseus manage to kill off your mate with a bronze sword?" I said.

I suddenly remembered something I had seen on a Minoan frieze. It showed a young girl faced with a bull.

As it charged she jumped up, somersaulted and ended up balanced in its horns like a vaulter, a hand on each horn. Vaulting I could do. Vaulting onto a twin set of parallel bars ten feet off the ground and travelling towards me at speed - well, I'd give it a go. AAlthough what I'd do when I got there I wasn't sure.

I slung my shotgun over my shoulder and did my Travis Bickle impression, my palms upwards and my fingers gesturing towards myself. "You looking at me?" I said.

The Minotaur had stopped limping. It was very quiet and it stared at me with its red eyes. It's foolish to anthropomorphise animals, but he was only half animal. He looked half-insane with rage, that was for sure.

"You looking at me?" I put my thumbs in my ears, waggled my fingers and stuck out my tongue.

I'll swear he beat his chest and made a Tarzan noise. Then he charged.

I bent my knees and jumped. If it had been ordinary gravity I probably would have impaled though my back as I somersaulted in mid-air. I made a perfect landing, although the horns were almost too big and smooth for me to get my fingers on. I immediately swapped hands over so that I was facing backwards.

Finally I bent my body and wrapped my thighs around his thick bull neck. It felt a bit like my Harley.

The Minotaur stood still, roaring and tried to punch me in the face. I managed to fend off his fist by wrenching his head around so that his horns got in the way, but it took all my strength. I wasn't going to be able to parry him for much longer. There was no chance of breaking his neck or wrestling him to the ground.

I acted quickly. Taking my shotgun in one hand and pulling back his snout by hooking my fingers in his nostrils, I shoved the barrel down his throat. The Minotaur, torn between reacting first to the pain in his snout and then to the choking sensation in his throat, forgot to hit me. I pulled the trigger. There was a muffled squelchy explosion. Fortunately his hide was tough enough to prevent me shooting myself through his neck.

"That was excellent," said Father, clapping. The study reappeared and the body of the Minotaur disappeared. "What an incredible woman you are."

I was tempted to load up and shoot him, but I opted for a dignified silence.

"The Minotaur was quite a good correlation from your memories, wasn't it?"

I wearily resumed my place with my feet on the coffee table. "Can you read my mind at the moment?" I said.

"Actually, no. The medical unit upstairs got everything when it patched you up."

"How did you manage to recreate my father for that first visit during the night?"

"Oh, from first hand observation over the decades."

The thought of my real father pottering innocently around the grounds made me feel nostalgic. "I thought you were being nicer than I remembered," I said, attempting to wipe my nose on the sleeve of the disco outfit.

"It was necessary to test you, you know," said Father. "It's a pity we have to go to ur-Earth at all. Whatever tries to stop you will be created from within you. There'll only be a few hundred yards between where we touch down and the fuel. If we're lucky it will a featureless plain."

"And what am I looking for?"

Father went over to the bookcase and took out a doughnut shape stone. It had an Art Deco-like design around the rim, in terracotta red. "Just one of these will do. More is better. There should be a pile of them, or a box, or a stack on a stick ... or something."

"How many millennia is it since you're been to ur-Earth?"

"Irrelevant. It was the same then as it is now. A dusty ball, scoured flat, with no sea. Earth is a living being. ur-Earth is like a senile old man, but with malevolent intentions."

"Very metaphysical."

"No, I was being literal," said Father, handing me some objects. "Here's a map and compass. Same type of iron planetary core and all that."

The map showed a straight line drawn out from the side of the ship in an easterly direction, ending in a cross. There were no other features.

"Amusing," I said.

"Press the stud on the compass," said Father. As I did, a spot of light appeared within the outline of the ship. "That's you. Just don't lose the map."

Father stayed below whilst I went up to tear a strip off Joe and Stella.

"But we didn't press any buttons!" protested Stella. "And this screen came on all by itself."

"We thought that if we didn't have a bastard clue what we were doing, we'd better leave well alone," said Joe.

The screen showed space, stars, that sort of thing. Stella and Joe were open mouthed with admiration with what they said was the beauty of the view, but I felt as if I'd seen better at the movies. The only emotion I felt was apprehension.

Gradually a black disk became visible in the star field. I was expecting night and day, a terminator, maybe clouds, but this body only seemed to absorb light. Ur-Earth.

"Are we on the dark side of the sun, or what?" said Joe, puzzled.

"That'll be it," I said.

"There is no dark side of the sun," said Stella.

"Are you sure?" I said.

The blackness was growing. We seemed to be approaching very fast, so I pretended that I was watching a video game. The increased gravity I could feel was just my fatigue and the faint trembling in the superstructure was just the video game equivalent of cinema quality sound effects.

Stella and Joe clutched at each other.

"Shouldn't we be at a correct injection angle or whatever it's called?" said Stella.

"Won't we burn up?" said Joe.

"We'll be perfectly all right," I said, as convincingly as I could manage. "I had a chat with the ship while I was downstairs and it told me so."

They didn't look reassured.

Sensibly a hatch that lead to a stairway to the ground was provided for me.

"Stay here," I said. "I'll be back directly. I've got a map to the fuel dump." I could tell they were dying for an explanation, but I didn't let them ask. They were wigged out by the space thing as it was, without mentioning Mars or ur-Earth. "Don't let anyone but me back in."

"Like who?" said Joe.

"Nobody but me," I said, glaring at him and daring him to answer back. He didn't, so I guess I scared him.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting when I started descending the stairway and got my first look at ur-Earth. The air was breathable and there was no breeze. The temperature was pleasantly warm and all I could see was dry brown earth stretching in every direction. The flatness of the landscape and the featurelessness of the sky was disorientating. The only reassuringly normal thing was the sun, which was high.

I stepped onto the earth. The staircase retracted behind me and the hatch clunked shut. Just me and a giant field.

I looked at the map. My light dot was outside the ship and I was facing in the right direction. I shaded my eyes and looked into the middle distance. I could just see was might have been a pile of stones.

"Put your head between your legs and kiss your arse goodbye," I said and took a few steps away from the ship, my shotgun held at the ready. Frankly I could have done with some heavy ordinance, like a rocket launcher, for example.

Suddenly there was a shimmering in front of me. A large building was appearing, rather Edwardian in appearance. It was several stories high, with a large front door. Ornamental gardens were materialising from the flat earth, shrubs, gravel walkways, a large area of topiary like a maze, a fountain with a fish statue on the top. A wooden obstacle course. A large surrounding wall with a tall iron gateway, half open.

"Father," I said. "This had better not be you again."

A familiar figure stepped out of the gateway, her long braided ponytail swinging. She was wearing khaki shorts and desert boots, as well as a green leotard affair that was too tight for her large breasts, and she was brandishing two Uzi 9mm submachine guns.

"Welcome to my humble home," she said.

I got off one shot before she opened up. I'd assumed that the disco outfit was bullet proof, but it wasn't.

Something crashed into my chest and threw me backwards. I looked down, totally numb. My torso was ripped and full of bullet holes, some starting to seep blood.

I'd always been a better shot with a Uzi 9mm, I thought.

6.Evil Robot Ted

Wherever those Uzi bullets went, it was not my heart or my brain. Lungs, kidneys, gut, spine, liver - you name it - but nothing that instantly rendered me totally dead. Somehow I reached over my shoulder into my backpack and found the tube full of blue soap that "Lassie" had given me with my fingertips. I don't know how I got the top off and I don't know how I fumbled out a lump of soap. The next thing that I remember was starting up at a blue English sky, dotted with little fluffy clouds.

For some reason that I couldn't immediately fathom ur-Lara wasn't standing over me chuckling with an Uzi pressed to my forehead. Perhaps Father had been right about the "mental health" of ur-Earth - namely, mad or senile. Maybe ur-Lara possessed the same sort of tactical know-how as the Emperor Caligula had displayed when he ordered bowmen to fire into the ocean waves in attempt to defeat Poseidon.

I was healed, even if the disco outfit was a bit too shredded for modesty. It's amazingly reassuring to possess a little blue object that can cure anything - gunshot wounds, falls froom a great height, third degree burns. If only someone would design a first aid kit like that.

I rolled over and stared at more evidence of ur-Earth's tactical incompetence. If it really wanted to kill me, then it should have left the great flat plain alone and set a battalion of ur-Laras after me. Instead, - with the surreal feat of recreating the Croft mansion - it had provided me with cover.

Unless of course it was just toying with me, I thought.

I poked my head up higher. No sign of ur-Lara. I sprinted to the shadow of the perimeter wall next to the front gates. As I ran I had an uncomfortable sensation in my pants. Not looking down, I reached through the rents in my disco outfit and fumbled around in the crotch area. Six slightly battered Uzi shells - the blue soap must have ejected them from my body somehow. I couldn't think of an immediate use for six spent bullets so I ditched them.

Ahead of the gates was the front door. To the right was the maze. To the left was a low wall with the firing range just beyond. I wondered if ur-Earth had recreated my pistols along with everything else. Only the truly mad would be that pedantic.

I looked at the map. My dot had moved about the quarter of the way to the target. I tried to overlay this information onto the Croft mansion. In the hall containing the television? Beyond that, in the middle of the obstacle course? I wasn't sure.

The obstacle course seemed the best bet. I could head around the outside of the house with good cover and look for those pistols.

As I slinked through the low doorway in the wall, I heard a whooshing sound in front of me. ur-Lara was standing with a grin on her face and a rocket launcher on her shoulder. I threw myself flat as the rocket flew over my head into the wall of the mansion. There was an enormous explosion as a section of wall was blown away. The floor above collapsed into the gap and part of the roof fell in. I was almost buried.

I heard ur-Lara laughing. "Oh great," I thought.

Not even I can see through a cloud of dust and if I couldn't, then neither could she. I was on my feet immediately and diving into a narrow gap under a part of the obstacle course. The gap was a low wide tunnel to provide a crawling exercise, and to my relief and disbelief, there were my Browning pistols, just where I'd hidden them. After the midnight visit by Marco di Bartoli's men, I liked to keep my options open.

"Now we're talking," I said. If I could bring her down then maybe I could steal her Uzis.

There was another whoosh. I rolled sideways along the rest of the crawl way and leapt for the water pool on the other side. The obstacle course exploded above me into a shower of burning planks. One of the towers crashed into the water inches from my face and the wash threw me into the side wall of the pool, winding me. I had to surface, but yet again ur-Lara had obscured her vision with clouds of smoke mixed with flame.

I took a moment to glance at the "map". I still had to get to the back of the house and it was obvious that the fuel was inside the building somewhere. I put my hands on the edge of the pool and attempted to vault out, but the water had gotten through the holes in the disco outfit making me heavier. I did a handstand on the edge of the pool so that the water cascaded over my face, blinding me. I was expecting a rocket to the gut, or at least a stream of bullets but there was nothing.

I took out the kitchen windows with the Brownings and dove through into the darkness. Now all I needed was a psychotic Winston.

Nothing happened, which was worse somehow and should have made me suspicious. The kitchen was the kitchen, and the hall was the hall, and the dining room was the dining room. I was tempted to switch on the television to see if it really worked or was just for show.

Near the windows at the back of the house overlooking the obstacle course was a pile of stone doughnuts. They were heavy. I put five into my back pack, wondering if I could yomp and fight at the same time. It felt as if I had a full Bergen on my shoulders. I decided that I could always ditch some of the fuel doughnuts later if necessary.

The front door was open and there was no sound except the ticking of the grandfather clock. I scanned the upper landing, the Brownings held out at arms length in front of me. Nothing.

I could see the spacecraft through the front gates, and wondered if I could keep up a sprint over the open ground. I was generally OK for a hundred yards or so, but then I tended to slow to a run.

"Here goes nothing," I thought, and legged it. If ur-Lara was as bad a shot with a rocket launcher as I was when faced with a moving target, I figured that I'd make it.

I dashed down the drive and through the gates, braced for the explosion. The hatch of the spacecraft was open and the ramp was down.

I was just about to dash up inside, filled with relief, when my blood chilled. I did a forward roll and threw myself under the ramp instead of up it.

Why was the hatch open? Hadn't I given Joe strict instructions not to let anybody but me back in? Surely he wasn't that dumb?

I peered up through the hatch and saw "Lassie" at the top, waiting for me. It was calmly clicking and bobbing. Nothing about it seemed unusual. I edged out of cover and crab-walked up the ramp, keeping my head down, Brownings at the ready.

I poked my head up into the ship corridor, but there was nothing but "Lassie". Gingerly I eased the backpack off my shoulders and opened the flap. "Lassie" picked up all off the doughnuts with a metal arm and then moved slowly away into the depths of the ship.

I climbed up fully and the hatch closed behind me. At least security was restored, but I didn't like the quiet.

I found Joe in the bridge. His throat had been cut so thoroughly that his head was almost severed. His body was full of deep knife wounds. I thought of trying the blue soap, but then I realised that I would be too late. Even the glittering machine hadn't attempted to take him in. A bloody trail suggested that he had been killed elsewhere and then propped up in one of the pilot chairs like a trophy.

The ship shuddered prior to lifting off.

I touched Joe's blood matted hair and closed his eyelids. He'd lost so much blood that he resembled a waxwork. I'd like to say that I was overcome with grief, but instead I felt annoyed and disappointed, as if I'd lost a set at tennis.

"No more broken windows for you, old son," I said. The thought of Joe up his ladder with his putty made me close my eyes for a second. "Don't you worry. I'll have her for this."

She was obviously on board - he'd thought she was me. Not so dumb, really. I wondered if she'd been kissing him as she'd slipped the knife into him.

The ship began to rise from the surface of ur-Earth, pressing me into the floor. It seemed that it was time for me to play at Nemesis. So I got started.

7. And then there was one.

I'm no angel, unless it's the Angel of Death. I've killed hundreds of people. I've seem more dead and mutilated bodies than is perhaps proper for a well brought up young lady. They didn't have much to say about violent death in finishing school, and my etiquette lessons are only of any use when it comes to making polite and ironic conversation with people before I shoot them. I don't have any illusions about myself. I've had my apologists who've claimed that I only kill in self-defence, but this seems like a thin excuse when it comes to killing guards who are just doing their job whilst I'm in the middle of some archaeological heist. I've mown down animals when they've gotten in my way. I've killed species so endangered that nobody is even sure that they exist. I've slaughtered gods. If I have a philosophy, then it contains about as much respect for human life as that of the ancient Aztecs. I resemble Shiva the Destroyer. Let's face it - I'm a mass murderer.

I only mention all of this because that was the sort of person I was going up against. ur-Lara was me, but with a bad case of P.M.T. She was as fast as me, she knew all my moves and she was a total bitch. I've faced myself once before in Natla's mines. Natla had amusingly produced one of her butcher block clones, looking like me but with a bad case of weeping psoriasis. That particular Lara had done nothing but mimic my every move. She'd still been a bit of a sod to get rid of, and ur-Lara was much, much worse than that.

I took stock of my armoury. I had the shotgun and about twenty shells. I had more than a dozen bits of blue soap. I tried to crack open the Brownings, but I couldn't; they were ur-Brownings, of course. With a bit of luck they were magic and contained a limitless supply of ur-bullets.

I looked in my backpack. There were some tampons. Tampons are quite good for plugging large bullet wounds if you don't mind anaphylactic shock, but I guessed the blue soap would be sufficient. There was a thin rope with a grappling hook left over from the time that I had cleared the gutters on the West Wing. There was a self-heating meal I'd scrounged off some squaddies on Salisbury Plain. There was my Bowie knife, still covered in cheese from my most recent in-field cheese sandwich. There was a small bottle with a few tabs of speed. There was my travel humidor containing some old Montechristos, and my US Army issue Zippo. There were some dirty knickers I'd forgotten to launder. Finally there was a dead spider, a half-eaten packet of HobNobs and a can of Inca Cola I'd picked up in Peru. I crouched down in a corner of the bridge where I hastily ate a HobNob, drank some Inca Cola and necked two amphetamine tablets. It pays to be alert but unfortunately Inca Cola, though nominally coke, is hardly the real thing. I'd have lit up a Montechristo and done a "Man with no name", but I didn't want to give ur-Lara any more clues than was necessary. I wondered if the spaceship had a toilet, but then decided that it was best not thought about. I should have gone in the house. Although the loos probably would have been as fake as the Brownings.

The first step was to find her. She wasn't on the flight deck, that was for sure. I tried looking at my map. I couldn't see the "fuel" any more and the map had no indication of depth, but I could still see myself. More to the point - spookily - I could see a second white dot. The ship had obviously identified ur-Lara as me. Perhaps that was why we'd lifted off so suddenly.

If she'd been on the same level, I should have been able to see her. The only explanation was that she was below me somewhere. I headed for the lift.

Father was tied up in his armchair and books from the shelves in the study were all over the floor or smoldering in the fireplace. He'd been beaten - I gently removed the gag from his mouth. He stared at me with wide eyes, saying nothing. I undid his hands and he fingered his mouth.

"What more do you want?" he said.

"That wasn't me," I said, picking up the pieces of his pipe from the floor. I was going to pour him a Scotch but the bottle had been hurled against the wall. "That's ur-Lara from your precious ur-Earth."

"I'm sorry," said Father eventually. "I thought it was you in one of your moods."

I glared at him. "When did I ever lay a finger on you?"

"Sorry," he said, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. "She talked just like you. She didn't want to go to Mars. She demanded that I return us to Earth. I thought it was you."

I looked at my map. She was not far away. "Where's Stella?"

"She took her forward," said Father. "To the warrior storage area."

"Warrior?"

"You dispatched one when you first came on board."

"Then set them on her!"

"How will they tell you apart?"

I took my Bowie knife and chopped off my braided ponytail. It had always been a nuisance and I could grow another one. I threw it in the fire. "There you are. Different hair, different clothes. Didn't you even notice her bloody clothes?"

"I'm so used to the other get up ..." said Father. "Still enough of this moaning minnie business. She shut off my control of the ship. I'll get it back. You'll find her through that door ahead. I'll try and activate the warriors."

I started off, loading the shotgun and freeing the Brownings in their holsters.

"Lara?"

"What?"

"She said that she was going have some ... fun ... with Stella."

I didn't want to think about what I might have considered 'fun'.

The hall lined with motionless "Cybermen" and Stella was strung up by her wrists from some overhead brackets. ur-Lara was just turning to see who I was when I let her have it with two shotgun barrels to the head. There are times when small talk isn't appropriate. She did a speedy triple back somersault and crashed to the floor in a shower of brain and bone.

"Stella!" I hissed, reloading my shotgun. There was no answer.

ur-Lara propped herself up on her elbows. Somehow I'd blown a hole through her head. She laughed in a strangled way and pushed her jaw back into place. I could see the wounds filing in, and in a moment her face was back. She raised an eyebrow and gave me a narrow-eyed smile.

"Scared yet?" she said. "You can't kill me, you know. I'm like a computer animation of your mind."

I fired again, but she flipped backwards so that the shot hit the floor. She grabbed a spear from a "Cyberman" and hurled it me. It grazed my arm and I dived behind a warrior.

"You think they'd have invented ray guns for these guys," I said, and fired my shotguns, blowing a hole in her shoulder.

"Or at least a good old fashioned Uzi," said Lara, opening fire with a submachine gun grasped in her good hand. The "Cyberman" disintegrated and I rolled sideways.

All I had to do was keep her distracted long enough for the warriors to be activated, I thought. Unfortunately she was on me before I could react. I saw the handle of a spear arching through the air towards my face and then nothing.

I found myself hanging by the wrists next to Stella, who was coming round.

"Aren't these things great?" said ur-Lara, holding up a blue soap from my backpack. "Watch this." She gutted Stella with a spear tip and watched the blood hit the floor. Stella fainted. ur-Lara waited a few seconds and then applied the blue soap to the wound.

"You supposed to be me, are you?" I said. It was hard to breathe.

"Don't you remember those ants and the magnifying glass?" said ur-Lara. "Those little bastards really exploded in the sun."

"I don't kill for fun."

ur-Lara threw back her head and laughed merrily. At least she wasn't totally like me, I thought. "Your whole life is a quest for fun," she said, with her hands on her hip.

Keep talking sucker, I thought, my eyes flickering to the "Cybermen".

"Oh I disabled all of them," said ur-Lara.

I smiled thinly. "How did you know how to do that?" I asked. "I've certainly no idea."

ur-Lara blew my foot off with a burst of Uzi fire. "You've always been a snotty little bitch," I think she said. "The world's your playground. Fair enough. Let's play." I blacked out when she blew the other foot off.

I was soon back, thanks to the blue soap.

"Why are you still alive?" she asked, looking deep into my face.

"For fun?" I muttered.

"Father managed to do one thing before I beat him up," she said. "This ship stills thinks of you as the designated pilot, for some reason."

The disco outfit, I thought. It must have a signature. "Oh," I said.

"I wonder how long I'll have to torture you both before you'll take me to Earth?

I found myself frowning. Father had said that hadn't realised that ur-Lara wasn't me. So why had he prevented the ship from accepting ur-Lara as the pilot?

"Lara," said Stella, who seemed to be coming around. "Please don't ..."

ur-Lara whipped her across the face with the Uzi. I noticed that my Brownings were still in their holsters.

ur-Lara was obviously still not tactically perfect.

"The problem with being insane," I said, "is that although one might have the will and the strength, it's hard to think straight."

ur-Lara smiled. "Takes one to know one."

"I'd have disarmed me," I said, jerking my head to indicate the Brownings.

ur-Lara stopped smiling, which was something of a relief. She took the Brownings. "I wonder what sort of plan you're formulating in that devious little head?" she said, weighing them in her hand.

"You'll kill me before you get the information you want," I said. "You're completely cracked. You just don't have the patience."

She shot Stella several times in the stomach. "I don't have to fix her, you know."

"So what?" I said. "I'm not going to endanger Earth to save Dr. Oldfield."

ur-Lara came over and held a Browning to my forehead. "Oh well," she said with a shrug. "I'll just have to let the machines on Mars do it instead. I only wanted to go to Earth for a bit more fun before it's rendered lifeless."

"What machines?"

"Something on Mars has reactivated them, and they are gathering energy as we speak. Father was going to try and save the tombs on Olympus Mons, but he overlooked the machines. Perhaps he doesn't know about them ..."

I sighed and smiled. "Whatever," I said.

ur-Lara placed the gun muzzle on my nose. I could see her finger tightening on the trigger and tried not to flinch. I could see the finger whitening as the pressure increased, but there was no shot.

ur-Lara looked at the gun, closely. "Where did you get this piece of crap?" she said in a puzzled tone. "It won't fire any more." Suddenly she yelped and dropped the Browning like a hot cake. It hit the floor with a squelch and stuck there. ur-Lara was looking at what seemed to be melted gun metal on her fingers. She tried to wipe it off on her shorts, but her fingers and clothing seemed to be sticky.

She licked her lips and there was a look of panic in her eyes. Her tongue seemed to stick to her upper lip.

"I'm melting," she said sounding like a ventriloquist with a speech defect. Her legs buckled and she screamed a bubbly scream. Slowly she folded up like a candle in a blowtorch flame until there was nothing left but a shapeless lump of browny pink mush. Her eyes were still glaring crazily at me as her face sank into her torso.

"Are you all right?" said Father a little while later as "Lassie" cut us down. Stella was being taken straight to the glittering machine to be fixed.

"What happened?"

"She was a creation of ur-Earth," he said. "I suppose we just flew out of range."

8. Two breakfasts and an exposition

"Can I come in?" I said, knocking on the bathroom door.

"O.K.," said Stella's voice. She was lying up to her neck in the hot water, her chin resting on a blanket of bubbles.

I sat down on the toilet. "He's done an amazing job," I said gesturing at the bathroom. "How was your room?"

Stella grimaced. "I tried to pretend that it was real," she said.

"You should come out for breakfast. He's made this pine Ikea-type dining table and something that looks and feels like spring sunshine coming in through the windows. You can even smell grass."

"Is the food real?"

"It's nutritious and looks real, if that what you mean."

"I think if I ate it I'd throw up."

I rested my chin on my hand and looked at her. I didn't blame her. "Shall I wash your hair?" I asked. I'd heard this was a bonding-type thing to do.

Stella sniffed and blinked gratefully. "O.K.," she said.

I poured water from a jug over her hair a few times. "So we're going to Mars," I said, taking some shampoo and smearing it over her head. I wasn't quite sure what to do next, so I tried massaging the soap into her scalp.

"That's nice," said Stella. "Your fingers seem real."

"I'm real," I said. It hadn't occurred to me that she'd have any doubts. "Don't I seem real? After all - I haven't sliced your ear off or poured petrol over you yet, have it?"

Stella stiffened. "Don't," she said, grabbing my hand. "Don't joke."

"Sorry," I said, rinsing my hands in the bath and handing her the jug. "I've picked up a sort of gallows humour somewhere along the way."

"This is just an ordinary day for you, isn't it?" said Stella, blowing the soapy water away from her nose and mouth.

"Not really," I said. "Somehow I think that space travel just isn't my cup of tea. I think we stumbled into the wrong movie." I handed her some towels.

"I could do with a cup of tea," said Stella.

Father tried to join us, but Stella asked him to go away.

"Guess what my hobby is," she said, buttering a piece of toast is a very controlled way.

"Um ... wine tasting? Horses?" I had no idea about hobbies. "The theatre?"

"Astronomy," said Stella. "I'm an astronomy nut. I watch every programme. I wanted to be Heather Couper when I was little."

"Good," I said. "It's good to have an interest outside of work."

"I've watched and read everything about Mars that you can imagine. I've gazed at the pictures from Mars Pathfinder for hours, just trying to imagine what it would be like to stand there. I've even got a photo of Olympus Mons in my flat."

"That's ... an amazing coincidence," I said.

"Not really," said Stella. "Ordinary people are interested in things like that."

I half-smiled at the implied criticism and poured myself some coffee. Father had managed to come up with a quite mellow blend, with hints of Java and Kenya. "You're pissed off then," I said.

"Pissed off - as you so delicately put it - might describe some of my feelings."

"Come on, Stella," I said, tipping back my chair and putting my feet on the table. "We're in this together and I need to know what you think."

Stella laughed a bitter breathy laugh. "I'm scared witless," she said counting on her fingers. "I'm sickened by Joe's death. I fed up with you bullying me. This ship gives me the creeps. I don't want to go to Mars. I don't want any more shocks. I want to lie on the sofa in my flat listening to opera and eating Haagen-Daas Chocolate Vanilla Fudge ice cream with my boyfriend. Yes, I'm a bit pissed off."

I nodded. She had me there. I didn't know what to say, so I said "I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

"Why would you?" said Stella, angry tears appearing in her eyes. She slammed back her chair and stalked off back to her bedroom.

"We need maps and stuff," I said to Father. "Up to date maps."

"O.K.," said Father.

"I want to get Stella onto the Internet. I want you to contact Mars and find stuff out. Can we do that?"

"If there's radio signals around, I'm sure we can intercept them."

"And finally - what's this machine that the other Lara was going on about?" I told him what she had said about the machines that were set to destroy Earth.

Father just looked at me with his mouth open. "Oh my God," he said, eventually.

"I take it that you didn't know?"

"It didn't occur to me ..." he said, gazing at nothing. "After all this time ..."

"And?" I said.

"This is what I know," said Father, heavily. "This ship picked up a distress call from the tombs on Olympus Mons. It was an automated signal, but the most likely explanation is that something has happened which endangers them. It might even just be a natural phenomenon, like ... I don't know ... an earth tremor?"

"They've never measured any seismic activity on Mars," said Stella, who was standing in the study doorway. "It's supposed to be dead."

"Come in my dear," said Father, hastily. One hesitates to ascribe feelings to an artificial human but he gave the impression of a schoolboy in disgrace who was trying to make up for it. "Have a seat."

"We're talking about something the other Lara said," I said, bluntly. I wasn't sure if Stella was up to it.

"O.K.," said Stella, evenly. "Do carry on."

"Well ... maybe we weren't the only ones to receive that message. Or maybe whatever it is that caused the message to be sent has also activated the machines," said Father.

"Cut to the chase," I said.

"Mars hasn't been dead as long as everybody thinks," said Father. "About ten thousand years ago, there was war between ur-Earth and Mars. They both sent machines which reduced the two planets to dried, dead husks. The survivors from both planets made it to Earth. The Olympians."

"And the machines have just woken up from a long armistice and decided to carry on the war?"

"ur-Earth must have been alerted to survivors by our arrival. Maybe they contacted the machines," said Father. "I don't know."

"You see the problem?" I said to Stella.

Stella set her jaw and smiled grimly. "I see the problem," she said.

Stella was on-line, sort of, so I left her to it. I'd had a bath and now I was lying on my bed, relaxing. There is nothing quite like stretching and rolling and nuzzling on a bed with silk sheets and pillow cases.

Especially if one is naked. I rubbed my nose and face into the pillow. I moved my legs under the sheets so that I could feel them. Pure sensual bliss. I was in one of my cat moods.

I was pointing and relaxing my toes at the ceiling whilst massaging my calves when I started thinking about Joe. It had been affecting the way he was so keen on my breasts. When I was younger I'd hated them and had wanted my parents to pay for a reduction. Slowly - one way or another - I'd learned to live with it. Yoga helped. It seems to me that whatever shape you are you wish you were something else. Thinking about Joe made me feel quite sexy, but then I remembered his cut throat. So I got up and got dressed.

Nothing much happened that day. I did some exercises in the hall full of "Cybermen". The gravity wasn't up to much, but I dutifully carried out some isometric "bracing" using the "Cybermen" as props. They were surprising sturdy on their feet. They were definitely machines. Father and ur-Lara were machine projections. The threat to earth was from machines. I wondered what was in the tombs on Olympus Mons. It didn't please me much to think that I had been kidnapped by a fancy version of a Spectrum ZX computer. "Lassie" came in and started fiddling around in the innards of the "Cybermen" so I left.

"Are we nearly there yet, Dad?" I said to Father. "Stella says it'll take months."

Father smiled. "This ship can travel by a choice of routes. The one that we're on has a slightly different definition of time and distance to that of Newton's. We'll be there in a couple of days."

"Very gnomic," I said.

"Ironically, it's further from ur-Earth to Earth than it is from Earth to Mars at the moment, but the latter takes longer."

"That is ironic, isn't it? So - how come nobody on Earth has spotted ur-Earth yet?"

"It's invisible. To everything, even radar. If it wants to be. The whole surface of the planet is available for disguise. It can manage a zero albedo."

"A likely story," I said. "Is there anything good on telly?"

So I put my feet up for a few hours and smoked cigars whilst I watched _'Allo 'Allo!_, _Blake's Seven_, _The Sweeney_ and _Benny Hill_, beamed direct from some satellite station. The finale was _Carry on Cleo_. How I laughed.

Father had beaten us down to breakfast the next "morning". Stella nearly turned on her heel.

"Dr. Oldfield. Please. I need to brief you at some stage. It might as well be in convivial circumstances. Have a kipper," said Father, gesturing at the sideboard.

"Don't tell me," I said, raising the lid of a silver salver. "Kedgeree."

"The thought of fish for breakfast makes me nauseous," sad Stella, stiffly. She was looking gaunt and tired. "I have half a grapefruit, a glass of orange juice and some lemon tea."

Father kept the look of disbelief off his face. "What a lot of citrus," he remarked. "You must have American blood."

"And I'll have a full English breakfast with extra toast," I said. "And a gin and tonic." I'd recovered from the previous night when I had still been rather speedy.

"Lara!" said Father. "Gin for breakfast? It's so common. Why don't you at least have an Irish coffee?"

"I'm not sure if the cream would pour properly in this gravity," I said.

"A fair point," said Father.

We ate in silence for a while. I was trying to see how many of the components of an English breakfast I could stick onto a fork at once when Stella cleared her throat.

"I found out loads on the Net," she said. "Although it was quite slow. Not as slow as at the University, but slow, nonetheless."

"Spill the beans," I said, with a mouthful of bacon, egg, sausage, toast, fried bread, tomatoes, black pudding. And beans.

Father shot me a look of disgust. "You're behaving like a Land Girl," he said.

"I don't know where to start. We're at Earth's closest approach to Mars at the moment and it's summer on Olympus Mons," said Stella.

"Nice and sunny," I said.

"From what I could gather the temperature at the summit of the mountain is about minus 80 degrees centrigade or lower, and the air pressure is about one thousandth of atmospheric. It's fifteen times the height of Everest and apparently its surface area is roughly that of Montana. Not that I've any idea how big Montana is."

"Sounds like we'll need more than stout tweed clothing and a good pair of boots then."

"We'll be landing in the caldera," said Father.

Stella smiled, thinly. "It's bizarre some of the stuff about Mars," she said. "Take the Phobos missions, for example. Launched by the Russians in 1988 to survey the planet. They carried landers that never landed, and are a big favourite amongst Flying Saucer buffs. I read a list of mission anomalies. 300 square miles of gridwork visible only on infrared - like an underground city. The shadow of something oval on the planet's surface that couldn't have been one of the moons. A ten-mile-long cigar-shaped object hanging in orbit next to the Phobos moon. Apparently a scientist called Dr. Maria Popovich brought it to attention of the Western press."

"Well it's a good job we're not wasting our time," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"I thought for a second you were going to tell us that there was nothing on Mars but a thin layer of frozen rust."

Father dabbed his mouth and sighed. "The remains," he said sombrely. "After the machines from ur-Earth had finished. They used the atmosphere to oxidise the civilisation. A very neat piece of chemistry."

"Tell us about the tombs," I said.

"One of the wonders of the Universe," said Father. He smiled and his eyes watered. "One of the most magnificent achievements. It rates with the pyramids. The whole complex is made from dry ice - blocks of solid carbon dioxide. The only place on Mars that such an architecture is possible is at the summit of Olympus Mons."

"Dry ice?" said Stella.

"You're kidding," I said.

"It's a fine building material. More beautiful than marble, and weighty enough to be used effectively in a low gravity. A brick of dry ice is as heavy as a brick, but much stronger."

"The only thing I know about dry ice is that it sublimes," said Stella.

"The only thing I know about dry ice is that you have to wrap it in gauze before you use it chill champagne," I said. "And that it's fun to tie up in a condom for making a bang at a party."

"The sublimation is the greatest problem, and the greatest mystery," said Father, ignoring me. "At such a low pressure carbon dioxide should slowly vapourise, especially over aeons. The tombs are underground, and somehow they are stabilised in an special atmosphere. Something has altered that delicate balance. Maybe a rise in local temperature. Maybe a large breach."

"And whose tombs are they?" said Stella, after we'd digested that information for a few moments.

"Who would you expect to be buried on the summit of Mount Olympus?" said Father.

9.First girls on Mars

"What would you like to call them?" said Father. "We could only fix three of them."

The three "Cybermen" clunked to a halt and didn't look at anything.

"Christ," muttered Stella. The glittering machine had fixed us both up with new disco outfits, and hers suited her. "Can't we go without them?"

"We might need them," I said. "Therefore I name these warriors Bill, Ben and Little Weed."

"Do they speak?" asked Stella.

"Yes, Ma'am," said Little Weed.

"What are they armed with?" I asked.

"As you can see," said Father. "Large spears."

"Oh great," I said. "So it's going to be like going after a velociraptor with a harpoon gun is it?"

"I could pierce the eye socket and brain pan of a foe with my first throw," said Ben.

"Only a bad workman blames his tools," said Little Weed.

"I see you've been programming them," I said to Father. "Are we going to be treated to improving aphorisms the whole time?"

"An empty cart makes most noise," said Bill.

"And this is for you," said Father handing an object about the size of a video cassette. It looked the part, a mixture of futuristic, organic and historic styles. "This reprograms the Doomsday weapon. It should return harmlessly to ur-Earth and self-destruct. The control machine is somewhere in the central tomb. The warriors will show you what to do."

"How long until the countdown runs out?" I said.

"About ten hours," said Father. "Plenty of time."

"A stitch in times saves nine," said Little Weed.

My powers of description are somewhat limited and so I am at a loss as how to describe the impression that our first sight of the surface made on us. Chilled to the bone is the best phrase I can muster.

"Oh my God," Stella's voice said over the radio. We were gazing out over a red field strewn with blackish boulders. The sky was a corpselike white, and there was a thin whistling sound like wind. "This is an awful place."

I've been to Antarctica, to the Nazca desert, to the depths of the ocean, and the scale or the loneliness or the atmosphere of the places has overawed me, but this was something else.

"I'm cold," said Stella, wrapping her arms around herself and stumbling out onto the boulder field.

"You can't be," I said. But I was cold too.

"I feel like I can't breathe," said Stella.

"Your suit supplies your every need," I said. But I felt as if I was having an asthma attack.

We were in the base of a crater in a corner of the volcanic caldera. I thought I could see the crater lip offin the distance. There was no view. You'd expect a view at an altitude of 25km. We couldn't even see out of the crater. I'd seen an aerial photo of the crater and the volcano. The crater was tiny.

"Time waits for no man," said Bill.

"The early bird catches the worm," added Little Weed.

I found myself walking along, looking at my feet, and trying not to stub my toe on a rock. I felt totally unreal. I felt like an ant walking along under a descending shoe. My senses refused to believe that my body was less than an inch away from sudden death. It was like being made of glass. One stumble and you'd shatter, or so it seemed. I wondered how Colonel Bean had relaxed enough to play golf on the moon. He must have had cast-iron guts.

"Hold my hand," said Stella.

"Good idea," I said. "Less chance of falling or getting disorientated."

We were heading for a microscopic crater which was about a thousand yards across. An entrance to the tombs was supposed to be there.

Stella must have read my mind. "The disposition of dust here isn't too bad, every with the planetwide dust storms. The average net dust deposition rate in the floor of craters is estimated to be about 10 microns per year. Therefore over 10,000 years, that's about 10 cm. I think."

I squeezed her hand. "That's a relief then," I said.

Ahead of us, Little Weed climbed a small rise and then stopped still. Bill and Ben, a few steps behind, did the same. Little Weed crouched down and probed the ground in front of him with a spear tip.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Come and see," said Little Weed. "The crater is filled."

We topped the rise. I was expecting to see a pond of Stella's Martian dust, but instead the crater seemed to be covered with a solid lid, camouflaged with a mottled red and black pattern.

"It looks like canvas," said Stella. "It looks like a cricket pitch cover."

On the other side of the crater were some formations that at a distance looked like boulders but which on closer inspection looked more like winches.

"What is this symbol?" said Little Weed, pointing down at the crater cover.

I looked closer. It was a hammer and sickle symbol.

Bill stepped onto the canvas. It was solid. However at that moment it jerked and Bill was thrown onto his back. The whole "canvas" surface was beginning to move. What was exposed underneath was a bit of a surprise.

"It's ironic," said Lajos in Hungarian, some time later. "Just when we finally finish the project and pressurise the environment we have to go home. No more cash."

"We are the Apollo 17 of Mars," said Istvan. "Only it's a military secret."

When the cover had pulled back revealing the dome and the "town" in the crater floor, I had ordered the "Cybermen" to take cover and wait until I called them. I must still have been the "designated captain", for they obeyed without question.

"It's like an oasis in the desert," I said to Stella. "Something human."

"I'm totally lost for words," she said.

"There's an air lock," I said. "It's just like the hatch on a Soviet submarine."

As we descended to crater floor level, our "disco outfits" unsheathed our heads. There was warm air at atmospheric pressure.

"No wonder the tombs are thawing," I said.

There was a sign like a street sign, which read "Farkas Bertalan Ut."

"How's your Hungarian?" I said to Stella. I figured that the inhabitants on the base would have the same hospitality rules as the Bedouin.

"Not bad," she said. She looked relieved and tense at the same time.

"Szia?" said a voice, and Lajos stepped out of the shadows, closely followed by Istvan. They looked just like young pioneer cosmonauts should look. Sex in a spacesuit.

Later around a cup of tea in base headquarters we were getting to know each other. There's something about being the only humans in the middle of hell that stimulates the old appetites. Even Stella was looking perky.

"So you are a English millionaire with an interest in archaeology?" said Lajos. "And you just decided to build a rocket and fly to Mars. On the basis of some unlikely mythologies?" He laughed with a glint of pearl.

"The English," said Istvan.

"You are like Professor Challenger."

"Only more attractive."

"Why do you cover the dome?" asked Stella.

"The Mars Orbital Camera," said Istvan. "It passes over every now and again. We are shy of having our picture taken."

"The Americans claim that it has a resolution of ten metres." They both laughed uproariously.

"How long have you guys been here?"

"The first surveyor device landed in March 1988. The Phobos project," said Lajos.

"There were fifty-two Phobos drops, about five a year."

"The first human team arrived in 1995. They left from Mir."

"Now it is all over. All dressed up and nowhere to go, as the saying goes."

"There is a unmanned ship in orbit waiting for us to rendezvous."

"Maybe we could get a ride with you girls instead."

We all giggled.

They swallowed the eccentric English explorers stuff, but I wasn't sure how I was going to explain the "Cybermen".

"Just ... hold onto your hats," I said before I went back outside to fetch the troops.

Istvan and Lajos let out an oath simultaneously when Bill, Ben and Little Weed clunked into view.

"We had no idea," said Lajos. "What do they retail at in American dollars?"

"They are not generally available," I said. "So we know your secrets and now you know one of ours."

"We do not understand this language," said Little Weed.

"I do," I said, "and that is all that matters."

"We must vent the atmosphere from around the tomb entrance and lower the temperature," said Bill.

"Only on my command," I said. "We need to reconnoitre first. The situation may work to our advantage when it comes to handling the ur-Earth machines."

I glanced at Lajos and Istvan. It's a well known fact that all Hungarians speak perfect English. They were gazing at Bill with awe. If they understood what we'd been saying, it didn't seem to have sunk in.

"Let's find the entrance," I said.

The fact that the Mars mission hadn't found the entrance when building the base was, as Dylan might have put it, due to a simple twist of fate. When they'd been building a trench for the foundations, they'd shoveled the soil over the entrance to the tombs. Ten yards to the east and they'd have exposed it instead of covering it up.

"Will we let air in?" I said to Little Weed.

"There is an airlock," he said.

"Suit up," I said to the Hungarians, who had insisted on coming with us.

"I'm afraid that our spacesuits are not as sexy as yours," said Istvan.

"Oh, I don't know," I said.

10. The thirsty ones

There must be something in the human psyche that dislikes fog at night. It must have been a Victorian thing to start using dry ice smoke in horror shows. The entrance to the first tomb was pitch black apart from the areas lit by the headlights of the "Cybermen" and my Maglight. Visibility was down to a few yards and the rest was swirling, glittering clouds.

"Amazing," said Stella. I was expecting hysterics, but her intellectual curiosity had taken over.

I looked at my Breitling watch. The pressure and temperature were too low to read.

"Shine a light here," she said. We were standing in front of an archway fashioned from blinding white material. There were pockmarks in it, like one can make by running a block of ice under a hot tap. There was some of the Linear script cut into the lintel.

"QE-RA-SI-JA," read Stella. "Amazing. Teiresias."

"That being Teiresias the Seer who was summoned back from the kingdom of the dead by Odysseus using a trench full of blood?" I said.

"Very good," said Stella. "We'll make you a pre-classical scholar yet."

Little Weed, Bill and Ben advanced through the doorway, spears at the ready. As they entered the chamber ahead, more and more glimpses of it were illuminated.

"Are you expecting trouble?" I asked Little Weed. Father had assured us that the tombs would regard us as "friend" and not "foe" and so had dismissed my request for information as to what exactly happened to "foe".

There's many a slip 'twickst cup and lip," said Little Weed. I sighed.

I had expected a tomb-shaped tomb, like an Egyptian sarcophagus or a memorial in Westminster Abbey, but the Olympians had other ideas. The "Cybermen" were converging on a giant dry ice throne, and it was occupied.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Lajos, closely followed by Istvan. He looked terrified. He leant his helmet so that it touched my faced - the Hungarians only had radio contact with each other.

"It is safe?" he yelled, in an eerily booming voice. "It is wonderful, but is it safe?"

I shrugged with my hands and tried to make a reassuring smile. I patted them on the shoulders and gestured for they to stay where they were.

"Lara," called Stella. "Come and look at this."

She was standing in front of the throne. The occupant was humanoid. It had facial hair, covered in glittering crystals, and was wearing an archaic robe. There were ice filled sockets where its eyes should have been and it was crowned with what looked like a frozen laurel wreath.

"The blind prophet," said Stella in a breathless voice. "Straight out of myth."

Stella obviously hadn't been paying attention when she'd been watching Raiders of the Lost Ark. She reached out a tentative hand to touch the frozen claw grasping the throne's armrest.

"Don't do that," I said.

Suddenly from all around us a voice, deepened by the fog, boomed "Tanatosa". There was obviously enough carbon dioxide in the tomb to conduct sound. The "Cybermen" pulled Stella and I away from the throne and formed a circle around us, spears pointing outwards.

I suppose that cosmonauts would hardly have been perceived as "friends". Shapes came leaping out of the fog, moving like humans pretending to be hounds. They were onto Istvan and Lajos before anyone could react. They went down in a welter of claws and blood. I could see the blood freezing instantly and falling as snow or congealing on the icy floor. The hunters scooped up the bloody ice like a dessert and licked it enthusiastically. They burrowed inside the remains of the spacesuits like a shoal of pirhanas. The fog closed in.

Ben bounded off into the fog. I caught a last glimpse of him spearing one of the hunters and throwing it high into the air in the low Martian gravity.

Bill and Little Weed hustled us behind the throne.

"This is the wrong way," I yelled.

"Shut up, Lara!" yelled Stella.

Little Weed pushed us towards a doorway-like opening. Inside Bill found a mechanism embedded in the ice. He inserted a tube from the rack on his chest into a frosty socket. There was a high pitched screeching sound from above, and shards of ice fell into the doorway. Bill pressed a button, and the bottom of a door appeared. It was heat-eaten and misshapen. It had descended to above half closed when the first of the dog things bounded underneath it and leapt straight at me.

Fortunately I'm used to things leaping at me. I crouched and levered up a shard of dry ice about twenty inches long. The dog thing was impaled quite satisfactorily, its claws swiping at my face in its death throes.

I could see that it was a machine. Little Weed caught another in the throat and Bill slammed two into the walls on each side of him as they ran through the door. The door was a third closed when Bill crouched down and blocked the remaining space with his body. Dog things tried to wriggle past him but he stopped them. Then he began to shudder as the pack threw itself against him. He let out a dull screaming sound, but none of the pack got through. They must have been attacking his face, for suddenly his head collapsed and the door settled onto the ruins of his shoulders. The way was closed.

Little Weed stood quite still for a second, his face half lit by his headlights. His face was expressionless as usual but he was looking at Bill.

"It's a bad way to die," I said.

"It is a good way to die," said Little Weed.

"Why'd they attack us?"

"Even we are not permitted sacrilege."

"I only touched him!" said Stella, in an anguished voice. She'd totally lost it.

"You only touched a god," said Little Weed.

"I'm going to die," said Stella, sinking to her knees. "I'm going to die for being curious."

"Curiosity ..." began Little Weed, but I gestured for him to be quiet.

"You are not going to die," I said.

"Yeah, right," said Stella. "You're a liar. You're a killer. You don't give a damn about me. Fuck off."

"I'm not a liar."

"You told Lajos and Istvan they'd be safe ..."

"No, I didn't."

"... you told Joe he'd be safe ..."

"No, I didn't."

"People just die and all you care about is yourself. You are an utter bastard and I don't believe you and you can fuck off and die."

"Fuck is not an appropriate word to use in the presence of the gods," said Little Weed.

"Oh ... fuck off," said Stella.

"Stella," I said, trying to make eye contact. I tried to touch her shoulder. "Stella."

"Were you nice to Joe whilst you were ... shagging him?" said Stella.

"Joe's got nothing to do with this," I said.

"Joe's dead. Dead. Do you know what the word means? This isn't some sort of ... game where you can go back and erase your mistakes."

"Stella, listen to me. I'm going to make you a promise. I promise that I will get you out of here and back to Earth alive. If I have to risk myself doing it, so be it. I'll put you first. I promise."

Stella snorted. "Cross your heart and hope to die?" she said, caustically. "At least your evil twin wasn't a hypocrite."

I looked her straight in the eye and let all the cynicism drain from my face. I tried to look like the authentic "me". "Cross my heart," I said, "and hope to die."

"Apologise," said Stella. She was calming down. "Apologise for letting those people die and not giving a damn."

I bit my lip. "I apologise," I said.

11. Tomb raiding

I consulted Father's map. The easiest way to the control machine would have been to go out of the Tomb of Qerasija, through two tombs labeled "Enesidaone" and "Pajawone" and into the central tomb "Diwija". Five minutes at a run. Right now we were stuck in a side passage that lead to a tomb called "Areja".

"Also known as Ares." I turned to Little Weed. "What's likely to be in there?"

"I do not know," said Little Weed.

"Will there be warriors like you?"

"I do not know."

I let myself hang by my fingertips before letting go. I did a forward roll as I hit the floor to minimise the impact of the fall. There was no fog in the tomb of Areja and no sign of dog things. It was as quiet as the grave.

I could see from my Maglight that the tomb was much bigger than the previous one.

"Are you OK?" called Stella from above.

"Stay there with Little Weed," I said.

I shone the torch at the floor. It showed signs of erosion. In one place there was a hole, and below the hole, darkness. It was going to be like crossing a melting pond.

I could see a solid block about twenty feet away. I wondered if the low gravity would allow me to reach it.

I backed up a few steps, did a short run up and jumped. I landed a few inches short and my feet went through the ice. I grabbed the lip of the block with my fingertips. A large section of floor fell away into the abyss below, but the block held. I hauled myself up onto it.

Looking ahead I could see what looked like a large portico or altar, and in front of it a large pile of shining objects. I frowned. The pile seemed to be a pile of bones, human bones. The skulls were wearing helmets, and the ribs were encased in leather armour. Skeletal hands grasped bronze swords and wooden shields.

"What is that?" called Stella.

"Looks like someone's lunch to me," I said.

Off to my right was an even more amazing object. A giant ice statue, helmeted, with sword drawn. It had the archaic features of a Trojan warrior. It had probably been impressive before it got moth eaten. One leg was almost sublimed away. I mentally measured the distance between the head of the statue and Stella's perch. Maybe not.

I reasoned that the floor under the pile of bones must be fairly solid and took a running jump. I overestimated it and crashed into the pile. It hurt. Some bones and I clattered to the ground but I was safe.

I wondered if I'd committed sacrilege yet.

The map had suggested that the best way out was through the doors at the back of the tomb. I could see another throne, and another seated corpse. At its feet, chained skeletons with bronze collars posed on one knee with heads bowed. The spoils of war.

I ran around to the side and to the foot of the giant statue. I had to get Stella and Little Weed, and since nobody had thoughtfully provided a zip line to whisk them over the hole in the floor, I had another plan. I began to climb the statue. Finally I sat astride its shoulders with my gloved hands grasping its nose.

"What are you doing, Lara?" asked Stella.

"Practising my bouldering technique," I said.

I looked at the distance between the statue foot and Stella's wall. If I misjudged it, I'd be going for a swift trip to oblivion below the tomb. What the hell, I thought, and began to rock the statue backwards and forwards.

There was a creaking and cracking sound and the statue teetered in the wrong direction. I carefully inched round and leaned out in my best wind surfer pose, clinging onto the nose piece of the helmet. Dry ice is tough stuff. There was a bang from below and a cloud of flying fragments as the good leg cracked.

The statue fell slowly enough for me to get onto the top side of it. The head hit the wall below Stella with a crunch and stuck there. The knees remained jammed near the plinth.

I grinned up at Stella. "Good, eh?" I said.

"You're a lunatic," said Stella, as Little Weed prepared to hand her down.

As we inched sheepishly past the seated body of the god, Stella whispered "How come you can crash around in a tomb and demolish a statue and nothing happens, whilst all I had to do was touch a hand?"

I laughed. "Swings and roundabouts," I said. Normally it was the other way around. All my competitors seemed to make their way through tombs ahead of me without a scratch, while I was left to negotiate wild animals and traps.

"The Tomb of Posedaone," I read. "So that would Poseidon, presumably? Let's hope that they don't belong to literal school of architecture."

"What do you mean?" said Stella.

"Oh - you know. Temples of Midas that turn you to gold. Temples of Thor that hit you with lightning and a giant hammer. Temples of Damocles that have suspended swords of Damocles ready to fall on you."

"So you're expecting sea and sea monsters?"

"Not at this temperature."

We walked through the tomb doorway to be confronted by a golden lake. There was no dry floor.

"This is a problem," said Little Weed. "Is there no way around?"

"Not according to this map," I said. "What's your problem? You've just been running around in a vacuum.

A bit of liquid won't hurt you."

"Your environment suits are resistant to chlorine," said Little Weed. "My metal components are not."

Stella and I looked at each other and then at the golden lake.

"Chlorine?" said Stella. "Does he mean chlorinated? I thought chlorine was a green gas."

The "water" level had obviously dropped since the lake was first built, leaving a sloping beach of darkish material. I walked gingerly down it. The liquid was clear and I could see that, at the shore at least, it was no deeper than waist deep. I put a hand into it and got a momentary chill through my glove. It slopped heavily, a little like mercury. I've come across lakes of unidentifiable green or red liquid in various places, and they are generally toxic.

"I wonder how much weight that digger can take before it tips over?" I mused, thinking of the "Cyberman" that I had hoisted up by the head.

"Sorry?" said Stella, who had come down to the lake edge.

"What's the gravity of Mars?"

"About two fifths of Earth."

"So ... even if Little Weed weighed four times as much as a man ... let's try something."

In the end, we lifted him in an "all fours" stance, with his legs and arms straight. Stella put his feet on her shoulders, and I put his hands on mind. We looked like an unlikely acrobatic troupe. Stella held my torso for added stability and I had Little Weed's spear to test the lake bed before us. We shuffled down the beach into the lake.

"Cold," said Stella, as the liquid licked around her thighs.

"Do not spray me," said Little Weed.

"Concentrate," I said.

As we waded across the lake in a stately fashion, I wondered if we were going to come across any pot holes. I wondered if the tomb had guardians.

There was a promontory with a bijou, columned temple on it. Inside was the obligatory seated figure. He looked a bit moth-eaten, as if the sea air didn't agree with him. His crown was green and blistered and his hair and skin were very white.

"Nearly there," I was saying, when something sweeping along the lake bed knocked Stella off her feet.

Little Weed splashed legs first into the lake. He didn't cry out, but ran rapidly for the far shore. There he clambered onto dry land and started to brush his legs with handfuls of dry ice dust.

I pulled Stella to the surface - she was spluttering even though she was completely isolated from the liquid - and pushed her after Little Weed.

The thing had to be a another machine. I could a glimpse of it sliding through the water towards Stella. It swam like a giant eel. "Oi!" I shouted and started banging the surface of the lake with the flat of Little Weed's spear. "Oi!" It occurred to me that if the slightest damage was caused to either of our disco outfits then we were in for a most unpleasant death.

The eel swept past Stella and turned in a large arc just under the surface of the lake, allowing Stella to reach the bank and climb to safety. I deduced that it would probably sweep past me, a victim of its own momentum in the dense liquid. I lowered the spear tip under the surface and stepped aside at the last moment. As the eel passed me I dug the spear tip into its side and hung on. The eel spilt open like a grilled sausage from neck to tail. It thrashed a bit, and I left it to its death throes.

"That was pathetically easy," I said to Stella as I waded towards her.

"You're enjoying this," said Stella.

"I'm in my element."

"Well ... you're certainly in an element."

"Stella! Was that a joke?"

Unfortunately the mood of levity was spoilt a moment later when we discovered that Little Weed could no longer walk.

The entrance to the Tomb of Diwija was a long flight of glittering stairs. On each side were niches containing statues. They faced the massive doorway at the top of the stairs with expressions of dread and awe.

"I wish I had a camera," said Stella, who was holding Little Weed's feet.

"These are the lesser gods paying obeisance to the great Diwija," said Little Weed.

"Who exactly is the great Diwija?" I said. "Zeus?"

"No, no," said Stella, excitedly. "Don't you see how amazing this is? This is a matriarchal pantheon."

"Diwija is the Queen of the Gods," said Little Weed.

"Oh ... goodie," I said.

The doors were proof, if we needed proof, what an amazing building material dry ice was. They remained as pristine as the day that they had been made. The surfaces were covered with pictures, subtly coloured with paint.

"Diwija resembles Demeter," said Stella, breathlessly. "There's the abduction of Kore-Persephone." She pointed at a maiden being carried below the earth by a man on a chariot. Then she indicated a row of regal figures. "There's Selene - the Moon, and Helios - the Sun. Ares, Aphrodite, Hermes. It's like a map of the solar system. But who is this last god, seated by Demeter?"

"That is Diwo, brother and husband of Diwija," said Little Weed. "It was Diwo and Diwija that fought.

They fought the war."

Stella blinked a few times. "So ... If I remember my Linear B correctly, Diwo is generally identified with Zeus, the King of the Olympian Gods. But in this map, Diwo is represented as the ruler of ur-Earth. I don't quite understand."

I suddenly realised the significance of what we were looking at. I started laughing. "Diwo and ur-Earth may have lost the war," I said, "but they won the peace. The survivors of Diwo's army ensured that the Earth ended up worshipping male gods. Not Diwija. Our fathers that art in heaven, and all that."

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," observed Little Weed.

At that moment there was a sound of horns blowing. They were rough, harsh sounding horns. The giant doors began to swing open, and we pulled Little Weed out of the way. Inside the dry ice doors were stone doors. These too started to open inwards.

The sight inside the tomb rendered us silent except for Little Weed who said "The Thesmophoria festival."

Behind us was a howling of wolves. The Thirsty Ones had tracked us down. The first one began to bound up the giant staircase.

12. Sibling rivalry.

Little Weed had his spear ready, and he was seated at the top of the stairs. The dog thing hesitated. I up-ended my backpack on the floor. "Take these," I said to Stella throwing her the tube of blue soap and the chess-encrusted Bowie knife. "Stay by Little Weed. I just need a few seconds."

I grabbed up the thin rope with the grappling hook and ran into the tomb.

The architecture defied belief. There was a central temple floating in mid air near the ceiling. All around were a series of glittering white platforms and below a limitless drop.

Standing on the platforms were a series of what looked like small girls, all dressed in bright yellow robes like Hare Krishnas. They were chanting and raising their hands to the airborne temple, from which rays of light were streaming. Something was rising from below - a chariot pulled by mechanical prancing horses.

Standing in the chariot was the dark equivalent of a "Cyberman" and a pale girl in flowing robes with the head of a horse.

I was too busy to formulate a reaction to all of this. Weird shit happens. I swung the grappling hook around a few and flung it at the nearest platform. Logically, it was a smooth stone block and the hook shouldn't have caught but it did. That did surprise me. I pulled on the rope and it was firm, so I tied it off around a pillar.

Back at base, Little Weed had somehow managed to skewer a number of the dog things and there was a temporary lull.

"Can you make you way along the rope hand over hand, with Stella seated in your lap?" I said to Little Weed. "I want you in a safe place whilst I go after this Doomday device."

Eventually we were atop the marble platform. I'd untied the rope from the pillar and swung underneath the platform like Tarzan, before hauling myself up hand over hand.

"It's an illusion," said Stella, feeling the ground with her gloves. "The surface looks smooth but it feels rough and pot-holed."

I was wondering if the dog things could leap from the doorway to the platform, when one of them tried it.

It fell short with a yelp. I was about to observe that we seemed to be safe when there was a crash from below. The dog thing had landed on an invisible surface and appeared to be running around above the abyss. It ran limping into the centre of the space, and through the rising chariot with its two occupants.

"The whole thing is a hologram, or something," said Stella.

"Let's hope so," I said hurling the grappling hook at one of the saffron robed children on the next platform up. The hook sailed through her and embedded itself in the illusory stone surface. "I'm going up. You two stay here and keep out of trouble."

All of the chanting children had horse faces, like the figure in the chariot. Their song sounded like oriental plainchant. I was soon at the bottom step of the illuminated temple. The whole thing was an illusion, as Stella said, but I'd no doubt that there was a real drop below me.

I stepped into the circle of columns, and there was Diwija in all her glory, seated on an enormous throne of chalcedony. She was many breasted, with cornucopia in one hand and sheath of corn in the other. She had a thick mane of lustrous black hair, tied into heavy platted ringlets with a centre parting, and the face of a horse. She opened her teeth and whinnied, and then began to declaim a chant of welcome to her daughter, a basso counterpart to the chanting. Above her head I could see a clear skylight, and the inappropriately modern Martian sky, dusted with speeding clouds of ice and dust. Near the foot of the throne, surrounded by ghostly supplicants and seemingly half embedded in the floor, was a black object that looked like a chuck of the control deck from the space ship. There were lights flickering on it.

I stepped forward and my foot went through the floor, tipping me onto my face. At the same moment I heard Stella yelp from below.

"Lara!" she yelled. "Save me!" There was a screaming noise.

I scrambled to my feet. I had the reprogramming box in my hand, ready to insert. Father had briefed me on the ship. "It's only the control panel. The real device is in orbit near the moon Phobos," he'd said. "It is gathering sunlight for its assault on Earth. I don't know how long you have, but you must insert the new program into the control panel to change its instructions. It will be the only thing that looks mobile, scarred and out of place in the Tomb of Diwija. Little Weed will show you." The control panel was only a few yards away, but across a hidden surface of unknown treachery. At the same time I remembered my promise to Stella. I ought to go and look. I hesitated.

Suddenly the sky light above my head began to darken. A dust storm was beginning to block out the weak sunlight. I imagined the whole surface of Olympus Mons being plunged into darkness. The temple and Diwija winked out like a broken movie and all the chanting fell silent. All that was left was the light from my Maglight and the glimmer from Little Weed's headlights from below. There was a gap between me and the control panel, which was teetering on the very edge of the rocky summit.

I made a decision and threw myself backward to peer over the edge. Little Weed and Stella were no longer on a marble platform, but in the pinnacle of a rocky pillar. The dog things had climbed up from the rocky floor and Little Weed had been trying to fight them off, but now the dog things seemed dazed. Little Weed took advantage of their immobility. He grabbed two from his sitting position and crushed them against his chest. For a second the trio rocked on the edge. Then they fell. All three hit the floor of the cave and there was an explosion and a burst of quickly doused flames. The whole cave reverberated and rang with the explosion.

I heard a scraping sound from behind me and saw the control panel leaning over. It fell and hit the rocks far below with another booming roar.

I'd totally muffed it. The Doomsday machine was on its way to Earth.

There was nothing to do but leave. Everything had stopped, including the Thirsty Ones who were lying around in attitudes of sleep, twitching and dreaming bloody dreams. Perhaps the designers of the tombs had decided that no robber would venture up the slopes of Olympus Mons at night or in a dust storm.

Just how bad the storm was became apparent when we emerged into the Soviet base. I had to dog the hatch shut and rebury the site in almost pitch blackness. I'd leave the dead to carry on their memorials in peace.

There was plenty of light and heat in the base on Farkas Bertalan Ut., however. We stood in the doorway looking at Lajos and Istvan's stuff. One of them had been a Manchester United fan. They had Doom on their computer and Oasis on their CD player.

"I'm sorry about them," I said, eventually. "They were very young, weren't they?"

"It wasn't your fault," said Stella. "At least you kept your promise to me. Seems a bit pointless now, though."

"I'm not beaten yet," I said, slapping her on the shoulder. "Find a radio and send a message to mission control. Maybe if we warn them, they can stop the Doomsday machine in space. Nuke it or something like that. If you have any trouble tell them we're going outside to spell out 'Hello America' in big rocks on the mountainside."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm off out of here to have a word with Father. Maybe he can help."

I had my map and my torch. _Semper fi_, as the Romans say. I struggled out into the storm and over to the alien ship.

"Hello?" I said as the hatch shut behind me. "Anyone home?" I took the lift down to Father's drawing room.

"Lara!" he said, putting down his pipe and coming forward with arms half out-stretched. "How did it go?"

I sighed and swigged some whiskey from the bottle. "Not terribly well," I said.

"You found the control panel?"

"Yup. In the tomb of Diwija as you predicted. The tomb defenses were so busy fighting your warriors that it got broken before I could get near it. That's why I'm here. I thought maybe there was another way of stopping it ..."

Father had been glaring at me during this speech and now he exploded. "You blithering idiot!" he shouted. "If I could have done anything from this ship, don't you think I would have?"

I felt calm. "So that's it," I said taking another swig. "Bye bye Earth."

I frowned and put down the bottle. Father's outline was shimmering and he was changing expression. I took a step back.

"It's not Earth that you've doomed," he said. "It's ur-Earth."

I smiled. "I thought you were behaving oddly when we got back," I said. "The other Lara must have infiltrated the ship's systems somehow. Including you."

"I'd launch this ship after your Doomsday device if I could," said Father, grasping me by the throat. His breath smelt of peppermints. "Instead I'm going to dismember you."

"I'm the designated pilot," I croaked.

Father loosened his grip. "That's right," he said. "Why? Are you offering to help?"

"Let me go," I said.

Father stared at me. "All right," he said.

"Ship?" I said. The lights dimmed for a moment and I wondered why I hadn't tried this before. Plain dumb, I guess. "Ship, shut all systems down immediately."

Father's cry was lost as all the lights went off for the last time, including his. The ship was dead.

It turned out that we already had a lift home. There was something like a big lunar lander parked outside the dome. We shut the curtains before we left and turned off the gas. The semi-automated docking with the unmanned Soviet ship in orbit and the journey home were interesting, but not interesting enough for me to describe it.

"The Black Demeter was portrayed with the head and mane of a horse on the body of a woman," said the book that I was browsing through, some days after our crash-landing. "In the Ascent or Anodos, Persephone's reappearance with Hades was reenacted in a springtime ceremony. Saffron was used to dye the clothes of young girl acolytes who were considered to be symbolically dead."

"Weirdos," I said out loud.

"Miss?" said Winston.

"How is that wrist? Are you recovering from your plunge?"

"I'm just relieved that I had freshly chlorinated the pool."

"What do you think of my new acquisition?" I said indicating the "Cyberman" head that I had recovered from the lawn next to the crater. I'd placed it on a plinth in the trophy room.

"Most evocative, Miss."

It was fortunate that I wasn't wanted in the Former Soviet Union, and that the British Ambassador was a mate. The Russians had been kind enough to let me ring him from the Baykonur Cosmodrome. The deal was our silence in exchange for their cooperation.

Stella's boyfriend had rolled up in a Renault to collect her. He was an archaeologist too. I guessed I'd hear from her again, if only trying to talk through her post-traumatic stress.

Nothing had been reported from the heavens. I didn't know if ur-Earth had been destroyed or simply scoured clean again. There had been no strange meteorite storms or reports of odd solar activity.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," I said, adding coal from the scuttle to the fire.

"Indeed, Miss," said Winston. "And Miss?"

"What?"

"Should you encounter your father again, could you pass on my regards?"

I smiled and looked into the flames. "Naturally," I said.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Byzantium

**Chapter Two: Byzantium **

1. The Royal Crown of Hungary

There are two interesting words in the English language. One is "byzantine" meaning something like "of labyrinthine complexity" and the other is "balkanised", meaning to split up into small antagonistic states. I was poring over a map of the Balkans trying to understand 11th century Byzantine history when Winston brought the post.

"Madam has started early today," he said, wrinkling his nose at the smoke from my Montechristo.

"I love the smell of cigar smoke in the morning," I said. "Especially a crisp spring morning like this one."

There was a letter from the Foreign Office. I ripped open the envelope.

"Ah ha!" I said..

"Miss?"

"If I'm not mistaken," I said, "all my travel problems are over."

"It's a passport, Miss."

"It's a diplomatic passport. Full diplomatic immunity. Now I can go where I like and bring whatever I like through customs in the diplomatic bag."

"Ingenious, Miss. How did you manage to engineer such good fortune?"

"Between you and I," I said, "when the Permanent Under-Secretary rang me up to have a conversation about the Masonic Temple at Aldwych, my travel difficulties crept onto the agenda."

"Is it wise to blackmail the Masons?"

"Oh - they know me. I'm blue blood. I'm not a Catholic, or Jewish. I have no interest in politics. The only reason I'm not a member is because I'm a girl."

"Very good, Miss. More coffee?"

I'd upset a lot of people and knew a lot of secrets. I sometimes wondered when the assassins were going to turn up. Still - live fast, die young. I'd rather have my throat slit as a cure for the menopause than have to resort to HRT and monkey glands.

The map spread out in front of me was part of my ongoing attempt to piece together the true history of the Royal Crown of Hungary. Today I was trying to trace the journey of the Greek half of the Crown from Constantinople to Budapest.

"The Crown arrived between 1071 and 1077," I said to Winston, sipping my Arabic cardamom coffee. "So - which route did it take?"

The area south of the Via Egnatia, which joined Constantinople, Thessaloniki and Durrï¿½s, had been Byzantine territory in 1071. North of the line was Injun country. The problem was that every little state in the area - Montenegro and Macedonia, for example - had been embroiled in internal blood feuuds or schemes against the Emperors in Constantinople.

"You've asked me this before, Miss," said Winston. "If you recall I foolishly suggested sailing it up the Danube."

"I remember," I said. "They probably would rather have brought it around Greece by sea rather than taking it overland through Sofia or Thessaloniki. They probably wouldn't have landed it at Bar or Dubrovnik because of the rebellion of Michael of Montenegro. The only other logical port is Durrï¿½s."

But then where? They wouldn't have taken the Via Egnatia to Lake Ohrid, because that was Macedonia. The road north from Durrï¿½s led straight into Montenegro. The only route that avoided both of these rebellious states went over the mountains into Kosovo. It was impossible.

"It's a puzzle, isn't it?" I said to Winston. I noticed that his eye was twitching. "Were you just stifling a yawn?"

"I'm sorry, Madam," said Winston. "I rather overindulged in the Jerry Springer Show last night. I find Americans bizarrely amusing."

I took off my sunglasses and rubbed my eyes. The Royal Crown of Hungary had been bugging me for years. It was unfortunate that everybody else was bored rigid by my fascination.

The more I looked into it, the less I understood. Maybe if I started from Budapest and worked south, the solutions would occur to me. I looked at the diplomatic passport and decided that maybe it was time for a holiday.

Bugger Paris, to paraphrase the Prince Regent. Budapest in the spring knocks spots off it.

At Ferihegy airport, the customs official looked at me, my new passport and my luggage.

"What is the purpose of your visit to Hungary?" he asked.

"Something hush-hush for the Foreign Office," I said.

"And what do you have in your bag?"

I counted off on my fingers. "A couple of guns, including a semi-automatic weapon. Some hand grenades. Ammo. A first-aid kit of alien manufacture. Some class A drugs. Cigars. Scotch. Books. Clean knickers. Tampons."

The official burst out laughing. "Welcome to Hungary, Miss Croft," he said.

I took a taxi to the Hilton on Castle Hill - it was as ugly as I remembered - and then went to a tourist cafe for lunch. Afterwards I sat outside with a glass of red Szekszï¿½rd wine and my leather-bound research notebook, and watched the German tourists and Hungarian babes strolling past in the sunshine. If you're sick of London, you're just sick of London. If you're tired of Budapest, then you're tired of life.

I made a list.

(a) Look at Crown

(b) Have a Turkish bath

(c) Buy motorbike

There are two Royal Crowns of Hungary in Budapest, one in the National Museum and the other in the St. Matthias Church. I'm not sure which one is the copy - the one in the Museum looks older and dirtier - but the Matthias church has better close-up photos and is less crowded. I was the only one in the exhibit room except for an elderly female guard. The Royal Crown is an interesting object. The cross in the top of it is bent from the time when someone dropped it, and has since been fastened on with a large modern screw. The Crown spent some time in Fort Knox after WWII, and has been hidden or buried for most of its life. The Hungarians are very keen that the upper Latin crown is the original one that was used for the coronation of the Hungarian king St. Stephen in 1000. The Crown is "holy" and all Hungarian laws are made in its name. When it left the country in a oil drum, fleeing the advancing Red Army, they described it as "kidnapped".

I was more interested in the lower Greek crown. There are a number of cloisonnï¿½ enamel panels, backed with gold, depicting various saints and rulers. The three panels that interested me had been added to the crown after it had been manufactured. They were the wrong size for the mounts and had buckled the frames when added to the crown. It was shoddy workmanship. The three characters that had been added were the Byzantine emperor Michael VII Ducas, his son, Constantine and the Hungarian king Gï¿½za I.

My questions for today were - when had the panels been added, by whom, for what reason and what had they replaced? There were partial answers and theories in the literature, but collectively they didn't make sense to me.

According to my notes, the historical consensus was that the Greek crown had been a gift from Michel VII Ducas to Gï¿½za. "With the imperial workshops at his command, why would the Emperor have sent the king of Hungary a badly altered second-hand crown?" I said to the female guard, who was looking at the pictures in a Hello! type magazine.

"I'm sorry?" she said. "Is there a problem?"

"The Crown," I said. "It's very interesting, isn't it?"

"It is very interesting," she said, waiting for a polite moment before going back to her pictures of Mel B's wedding dress.

Logically, the original three lost panels would have to have been of saints or of rulers. Which saints, or which rulers? That was the question.

I opted for the posh Thermal baths on Margit Island. I'd always wanted to go to the Rudas bath on Dï¿½brentei tï¿½r, which is the genuine Turkish article, but it was men only, and however tightly I wrapped myself in towels I didn't think that I get away with posing as a man. Margit Island is a haven for lovers - I'd even been a young lover there myself long ago - and it has the pleasant air of a 19th century seaside town. It was nice to stand for a moment at the "prow" of the island and watch the Duna sweeping by on each side, although by the time the river got to Budapest it was hardly the "beautiful blue Danube" that Strauss had lauded. The same fast food stalls were there that I remembered. I had a vision of my younger self giggling as she discovered that the Hungarian for cheeseburger was pronounced "shiteburger".

The Thermal baths hadn't changed much either, and I'd been frequenting them even since I discovered that they were the best cure for a hangover next to ice-cold Coca-Cola. The attendant locked my clothes into a locker and handed me a numbered tag to tie onto my swimming costume. As I swam a few lengths I wondered whether to go for a 15 minute or 30 minute massage. I'm not sure what to say about the 30 minute massages - if you've ever met a physiotherapist or an osteopath, you'll have some idea of what they are like.

"Hello, Lara," said an unfamiliar voice. It was an unfamiliar man with a beer gut. "Don't you remember me?"

I trod water. "No," I said. "Should I?"

The man laughed. "I'm wounded," he said, with a faint Armenian accent. "It's me, Slava."

I had to get out of the water quickly in case the shock made me drown. "Slava?" I said, when I was on dry land. "How ... lovely." We embraced.

If you've never experienced it then there is nothing more peculiar than meeting a man with whom you had a love affair when you were young but who has now gone to seed. I'd met Viacheslav Obolenski ten years earlier when he was a young captain stationed with the Soviet forces in Hungary. He'd looked so smart in his uniform. Now he was wearing flowery swimming trunks.

"You look fabulous," said Slava. "You still have your fantastic figure."

"You're very kind."

"Shall we go and have a beer at Anna's Cafe for old times?"

"If you can stand the tourists I'm sure that I can," I said, as cheerfully as I could.

Later we sat outside at a pavement table.

"So you don't drink beer any more?" said Slava as the waitress brought my gin and vermouth.

"I find spirits more efficient," I said. "Egï¿½szsï¿½gï¿½ï¿½nkre."

Slava laughed. "You and your textbook Hungarian," he said. "Down the hatch."

We talked. It turned out that Slava had remembered me laughing at "shiteburger". He was married but separated, and was with the peacekeeping force in Bosnia. Business as usual then.

"What happened to the Earl of Farringdon?"

"He was a bit too much of a knob for my taste," I said.

"Knob," said Slava. "This is slang for a member of the aristocracy?"

"If you like," I said.

I decided to tell him about the Royal Crown of Hungary. To my surprise he looked genuinely interested.

"So ... where do you intend to go from here?" said Slava, with a look of expectant disbelief on his face.

"I thought I'd head south to Belgrade," I said.

Slava slapped his thigh. "You do know that there is a war?"

I shrugged. "It's the Balkans," I said. "There's always a war, even in peacetime."

I spent the night with him for old time's sake. It was quite nice really.

The next morning I went to the Harley-Davidson shop off the Belgrï¿½d Rakpart armed with my gold AmEx card and found myself comparing the virtues of a FLHRCI Road King Classic and a XLH Sportster 883 Hugger. I had a Norton C652 SuperMono on order back home to replace the Streetfighter that I had driven into the sea in pursuit of Natla, but I wouldn't have really have wanted to use a collector's bike on such a rough expedition.

The Classic had an extra half inch's ground clearance when compared to the Hugger, but did ten miles per gallon less on the open highway. However, it did have lovely laced wheels and a stylish windshield. The colour was two-tone diamond ice and Aztec gold.

"The Classic costs 17000 US dollars, but the Hugger only costs 6000," said the assistant.

That settled it. "I'll take the Classic," I said. "No need to wrap it."

I decided to break it in by driving to the City Park. A gaggle of Hungarian school children and their teacher were having their picture taken in front of the Millenary Monument.

I gazed up at the Monument. King Stephen, flanked on each side by various ï¿½rpï¿½d chieftains, was being offered the Hungarian crown by the Archangel Gabriel. I found myself examining the archangel at the top of the monument. The air had been still, but now a breeze had sprung up. The tips of Gabriel's wings seemed to quiver in the wind. It reminded me of a bird ruffling its feathers. Rubbish blew across the square as if a large flock of starlings had flown over.

A little girl shouted out, and pointed. The photographer slowly lowered his camera. I looked to where they were all looking and found that the statue of King Stephen had turned its head to gaze at me. The horses of the other six ï¿½rpï¿½d began to paw the ground, and the crowd of visitors started to scream and run away across the square. King Stephen drew a giant verdigrised broadsword. He made the motions of someone yelling "charge" but no sound came from his metal lips. The riders leapt from their plinth, landing with a earthshaking series of crashes on the cobbles, and rode straight for me.

2. Clan ï¿½rpï¿½d

I've had trouble with statues before. The green Chinese warriors guarding the parallel world within the Great Wall spring to mind. It had taken a great number of bullets to shatter them, and they'd been made of jade. The ï¿½rpï¿½d lads looked as if they were made of bronze. You can dent bronze and blow holes in it, but you can't shatter it. My only hope was that they were hollow, and thus structurally not very strong.

I roared off into the park in the Harley. I'd bought a silly Italian helmet with a brim rather than a full reinforced one, and I wasn't convinced that it would stop a couple of stone of bronze sword descending at eighty miles an hour. I pulled out my Desert Eagle from my pack, relieved that I'd left the Brownings at home.

I could see the horsemen had spread out behind me. They had adopted a hunt formation and a couple had produced nasty looking spears. I could have outrun them and escaped, but I had a nasty feeling that they wouldn't give up, and I didn't fancy being pursued across Eastern Europe by a bunch of bronze delinquents for the next few days. I had to deal with them now.

I stopped the bike with a skid turn, and took aim. One of the ï¿½rpï¿½d chiefs had a helmet topped by a cockerel's comb and was waving a weapon that resembled a piece of plumbing. I squeezed off six shots into his face. The first shot went through his nose and out the back of his head. The second smashed his jaw into a starburst of bright new metal. The third went wide and smashed his right shoulder. The fourth and fifth put a large U-shaped valley in the top of his head, knocking the cockscomb to one side. The sixth blew away his neck next to the shoulder wound. His head lurched sideways and sunk into his torso. He immediately broke formation and his horse rode into a tree with a large clang like a bell, wrapping both of them around the trunk like some weird piece of modern art. One down, six to go.

I should have been paying more attention. One of them had a bow, and an arrow, twice life size, was suddenly heading towards me. I batted it away from me with a tremendous swipe of the Desert Eagle but the weight of it unbalanced me. I lost my grip on the gun, which went skittering away across the grass. They were on me and there was no time to retrieve it. I did a wheelie to avoid the swing of a mace - the horse reared, its deadly metal hooves flashing past my face - and sped off.

I'd established that impact with a solid object didn',t really suit the ï¿½rpï¿½d statues. Having said that, the chances of getting one of them to ride into a tree again seemed slim.

The Harley weighed about 700 pounds and I added about 120 to that, so I decided to try an experiment.

I raced around so that I was approaching the pack from the side. They were riding past a grass rise and I gunned the bike to high speed so that it took off. I timed it perfectly. The rear wheel caught one of the chieftains on the side of the head. I landed with a bump and skidded to a halt, looking back at the results. I must have caught him a torsional blow, for the impact had twisted his head around so that it faced backwards. His horse slowed to a trot, confused, and blundered into the climbing frame on the children's playground. Soon they were both caught in the tangled metal. Two down, five to go.

I had a hunch that they wouldn't let me do the same trick twice. After all, all they had to do was duck, and I didn't fancy having my tyres swiped at in mid-air.

The guys had ridden straight through a metal fence in their pursuit. I dashed up and retrieved one of the metal palings, hefting it like a javelin. I turned about and drove straight for them. It is slightly unnerving playing chicken with five bronze horsemen riding close formation on ten foot high horses, but I didn't flinch. Two of the ï¿½rpï¿½ds lowered their spears in classic jousting stance as they thundered towards me.

I reckon that their close formation was their undoing. That and the fact that one cannot turn a ten foot bronze horse in mid gallop. Too much inertia.

I rode between the two centre riders with no room to spare, hurling my javelin at the rider to my right whose spear, held in his right hand, posed the most threat to me. The javelin pierced his face - I guess iron is harder than bronze - and he lurched back in his saddle, raising the spear tip out of my way. The rider to my left tried to slice me with his sword as I roared past, but couldn't reach down far enough to get me because I was on his shield arm side. I suppose his down-swinging sword must have contacted the up-swinging spear of his companion. The two weapons clashed together and tangled. The horses swung together like two speedboats tethered together and both riders were thrown face first into each other. If you've ever seen that film of steam locomotives crashing you'll get the general idea. Four down, three to go.

For my next trick I decided to copy that scene in the "Empire strikes back" with the Imperial Icewalkers. For some reason you can always find a length of rusty cable or old rope in a city park. Perhaps they come there to die. My specimen of light telephone cable still on its cardboard reel. I grabbed the end and set off carefully, unreeling it behind me. I'd just got into position to do a slalom route between the legs of the bronze horses when "Empire strikes back" turned into "Return of the Jedi." I got the cable wrapped around a tree and found myself doing an involuntary circle. I tried to ditch the cable but it caught on the handlebars. The Classic leaned onto its side, and slid away for a few yards as I threw myself clear to save my leg. I jumped up to retrieve it, but King Stephen was already standing guard. I turned tail and legged it.

I was quite near to end of the park where we'd started, near the Millennium Monument and the posh end of Andrï¿½ssy ï¿½t. I wondered how tenth century horsemen would mix with twentieth century traffic.

I could feel the crash of hooves at my heels and almost lost my footing as a bronze mace swept by my ear. I dashed into the road as there was a blare of horns as I leapt onto a bonnet of a Trabant and over the other side. Trabant bodywork is just strong enough to take my body weight, but it couldn't cope with a collision with a giant bronze horseman. The driver leapt clear as the horse's hooves went through the bonnet and windscreen. King Stephen was good - he kept to his mount as it tried to disentangle itself. There was a petrol explosion, and horse and rider were engulfed with flames. I didn't think petrol flames were hot enough to melt bronze, but one could always hope.

The remaining two horses were rearing and bucking, surrounded by hooting, panic-stricken cars. I dashed across the road and dived into the entrance of the Hï¿½sï¿½k tere Metro station. As I ran down the stairs one of the ï¿½rpï¿½d horseman was right behind me.

The Andrï¿½ssy ï¿½t Metro line is the oldest in Budapest, and is not far under the surface. The ï¿½rpï¿½d horseman couldn't fit under the roof upright, so he'd slung himself alongside his horse like a Red Indian in a cowboy film. He obviously didn't have bronze for brains. The horse skidded down the stairs like a scree surfer and made it safely onto the platform.

There was a train coming in. I wouldn't have time for it to stop and open its doors, so I did the only logical thing and jumped in front of it. There was a screech of brakes as I dropped down between the rails and let the train pass over my head.

I heard the crash as the ï¿½rpï¿½d chieftain urged his horse down onto the tracks. I'm not sure if he stumbled or if the train hit him, but there was a blinding flash of light as the horse's hooves made contact with the live rail. The rider was thrown, and lay electrocuted on the track as one of the wheels of the train smoothed his head from its shoulders. The horse lay twitching and glowing, half crushed against the side of the platform, and then all the lights went off as the circuit breakers blew. Five down, two to go.

It seemed I wasn't taking the tube. I edged out from under the train in the confusion and, crossing the opposite track, vaulted onto the platform and took the stairs back up to the street.

Getting rid of number six was a pure fluke. There was a bunch of workmen digging up the road on the side street opposite. They had dug a deep hole with metal pilings shoring up the sides, and were having workmen-type fun next to it with a pneumatic drill. I noticed the telephone wire above the hole as I was formulating a plan.

"Get out of here!" I yelled to the workmen, pointing at the ï¿½rpï¿½d horseman who had spotted me and was making a beeline. They didn't argue.

"Here boy!" I yelled, waving my arms and standing on the far side of the hole. He did a lovely fox-hunting jump over it and caught his chin on the telephone wires. I leapt to one side to avoid the riderless horse and he did a perfect loop-the-loop and crashed down onto the hole.

Immediately two huge bronze hands appeared at the hole edge as he tried to climb out. His expressionless moustachioed face appeared, and stared at me. I grabbed the pneumatic drill and sliding it along the ground inserted the tip into his eyesocket and pushed. The drill drilled for a second and then the metal palings at the edge of the hole gave way so that he fell, the drill still embedded in his face. The earth walls collapsed, burying him. Six down, one to go.

The last one was King Stephen, and his horse was limping. Either the heat of the petrol burning or the collision with the Trabant had damaged its fetlock, and as I watched the leg folded with a screech of metal and the horse went down on one knee. King Stephen dismounted with dignity and with a ringing of bronze on concrete continued the pursuit on foot.

I could run as fast as him, for a while, but then I realised that I'd tire and he wouldn't. I decided that it was time to give public transport another go. There was a bus just pulling away from the kerb and I ran alongside banging on the doors next to the driver. To my amazement he braked and let me on. It was one of those buses whose doors all open simultaneously, and as I boarded at the front, King Stephen attempted to board at the back. The bus crashed down on its back suspension and swerved to a halt.

There were only ten passengers on the bus. Five rushed past me and the rest squeezed out of the windows. The driver leapt for it. King Stephen had what looked like a large carving knife adorning the top of his helmet and he'd got it embedded in the roof.

I jumped into the driver's seat and floored the accelerator.

I watched as King Stephen extricated himself from the ceiling and started to make unsteady progress up the bus, crouched at an awkward angle. I flung the bus suddenly to the right and he fell into the seats, smashing them to shrapnel. We shot part the Oktogon metro stop at over eighty kilometres per hour. It was a devil of a job to weave through the traffic, light as it was, and I didn't really have a plan.

King Stephen had regained his feet and was inching towards me like a giant bronze spider. I turned the wheel to the left and this time his head smashed through a window. I steered close to a lamppost and there was a satisfying clang from behind me, but when I looked in the mirror I found that he'd pulled in his head at the last moment. The knife thing on his helmet had been ironed flat by the lamppost.

We'd reached the end of Andrï¿½ssy ï¿½t quicker than I thought and the bus skidded, almost ram-raiding the front of the Inca car hire shop.

King Stephen had finally made it up to the front. He unwisely decided to try a sword swipe but the bus interior was too small and the blade crashed into the ticket dispenser, showing me with fragments. We were bombing down Jï¿½zsef Attila utca and at the end was the river. I was running out of time.

King Stephen put his hand over my entire head and began to squeeze. I had nothing to stop him with. I hammered his fingers with my fists. I was blinded and my head was being crushed. I think my skull was just about to crack when the bus slammed to a halt.

His time had run out. Bronze is heavy and so he shot out of the front of the bus like the bullet from a Martini rifle. We had crashed into the parapet of the Duna. King Stephen flew out over the water, arms windmilling. He skipped the surface twice and then sank without a ripple.

I was fairly confident that any witnesses to the wrecking of a large chunk of Budapest would have been too busy looking at the ï¿½rpï¿½d possï¿½ to remember me. I had one hairy moment when I went to retrieve the Classic and the Desert Eagle, since the police had already put up screens around the Millenium Monument with "Closed for renovation" signs, but they luckily didn't see me as I sneaked out of the back of the park.

As I sat in the restaurant at the Hilton picking at my food, I had a lot to think about. How had the statues come to life, and was the fact that the ï¿½rpï¿½d dynasty been chosen significant?

Some sort of magic had been used, obviously. Unfortunately I neither like nor understand magic. My previous experience suggested that when there was that sort of nonsense about, there was also some sort of artifact bursting with occult power. What that "artifact" could be and who was using it was beyond my powers of deduction.

I thumbed through my notebook looking for facts about the ï¿½rpï¿½ds. The two halves of the Royal Crown had been sent to two ï¿½rpï¿½ds, King Stephen and King Gï¿½za. One very tenuous link was that Stephen's daughter had married a Bulgarian nobleman called Gabriel Radomir whose grandniece had married Romanus Diogenes, future Byzantine emperor. It was Romanus Diogenes who was betrayed at the battle of Manzikert by Andronikos Ducas, whose brother succeeded Romanus as emperor. This brother, Emperor Michael VII Ducas, was the chap whose picture was on the Greek crown along with that of King Gï¿½za.

These facts had made my head hurt before and they were making my head hurt again. If I'd been reading an Agatha Christie novel, it might have been easier. I went to bed.

I was heading south to Szekszï¿½rd and the Hungarian border. The only suspect that I had for the ï¿½rpï¿½d incident was Slava. As far as I knew he was the only person that had known that I was in Budapest. How he'd done it, and why, was a complete mystery to me. Maybe the way that I had sneaked out of his bed without saying goodbye had upset him. I could have gone and confronted him about it, but I had other fish to fry.

The Yugoslavian border guard gave me the strangest of strange looks as he examined my diplomatic passport.

"Wait here, please," he said, and went to fetch a superior.

Captain Raznjatovic interviewed me in his office, after a long wait. "Most diplomatic staff fly into Belgrade or come in some sort of official vehicle," he observed. "We've run a check on you, and your passport is genuine."

"Naturally," I said.

"We cannot guarantee your safety."

"There's a war on."

"So you heard about that at the Foreign Office?" He laughed drily. "Any evidence of spying activity or attempts to spread Western propaganda will not be acceptable. You must report into the central police station wherever you are staying."

"If I can find one still standing," I said.

"That's the sort of observation that it is probably best kept to yourself." His English was rather excellent.

"May I ask you a personal question?"

"Certainly," he said, sitting back in his chair and making an expansive gesture with his hands.

"Are you any relation to Arkan?"

His smile changed very subtly. "No," he said. "I don't have that honour."

About ten years before the Hungarian Crown had begun its journey, the ï¿½rpï¿½d King Salamon had taken Belgrade from the Byzantines. The White City had been in trouble ever since. I had one hairy moment on the 120 mile journey from the border to Belgrade. Most obstacles on the road are no problem with a motorcycle but at Novi Sad, where most of the routes south cross the Danube, NATO had thoughtfully destroyed all the bridges.

I sat astride the Classic contemplating the ruins. It resembled the sort of bridge that you might make with paperbacks when you were a child. The supports and the platforms were made up of identical slabs of reinforced concrete. One of the platforms had been blown off its support at one end and was sloping up from the river. If it had been sloping down on my side, I'd never had made it. I rode the bike out over the gap and landed just above the water. There was some applause.

I was relieved to leave the Danube. I had a vision of King Stephen striding along the muddy riverbed in the gloom, swinging his sword.

I'd never been to Belgrade before. I'd thought that I'd be unable to cross the rivers, but if the BBC news had been accurate the Belgraders had managed to save their bridges by pinning paper targets to the front of their T-shirts. I'd heard that there were continual power cuts, so it seemed possible that I'd be able to avoid open-air rock concerts full of biker chicks singing smaltzy songs about Serbian history.

I had been expecting the city to look like London after the blitz, with acres of bombed civilian dwellings, but it looked more like London during the 1970's Miners Strike. I didn't stumble over any dead bodies in the streets. Neither Jamie Shea nor Belgrade state television ever seemed to agree about the scale of civilian fatalities, and the Times newspaper wasn't for sale for some reason. Not that I'd bothered to read it back home.

The Belgrade Hilton was still standing, which - given that NATO would have made a deliberate effort to miss it - was somewhat of a miracle. Prices seemed a trifle high, but the hotel had its own electricity generators so I wasn't about to complain. There was an Internet terminal in one of the lounges which seemed to be working, which - given that NATO had been targeting communications - wasn't too much of a surprise. After a shower and a sandwich, I settled down with a glass of vinjak and escaped into Byzantium.

Romanus Diogenes wasn't the only emperor to marry a foreigner. There were Hungarian and Armenian brides in the Imperial families as well. The entire Macedonian dynasty, which ruled Byzantium from 627 to 1056, had been Armenian in origin. Similarly one of the Royal Families of Bulgaria, the so-called Cometopuli, had originally been the family of a local Byzantine admistrator. Even King Gï¿½za's queen, Synadele, had been the Emperor's sister. If I was looking for an explanation as to who had had a hand in the fortunes of the Hungarian Crown, it wasn't going to be able to disentangle the threads on purely nationalistic grounds.

I did find one new piece of information that surprised me slightly. On the Royal Crown, King Gï¿½za of Hungary was referred to as "King of Turkia". Given that at Manzikert the Eastern Byzantine army had been wiped out by a bunch of what I would have called "Turks", under Alp Arslan ... I decided that the Byzantines must have called everyone foreign a "Turk". Given the multinational nature of the Emperor's descendants and relatives, this seemed a bit rich. It didn't make the Royal Crown seem like a very diplomatic present, especially to a brother-in-law.

For some reason I found myself wondering there was any connection between the between the Andronikos Ducas who had betrayed the Byzantine army and Alp Arslan, but at that moment the Net went down and the nightly NATO air-raids began.

I sat on the balcony, smoking a cigar to muffle the smell of burning petrol, and looking at the fires on the horizon. Before I retired I realised that my period was a day late.

The next day I bought some Levi jeans, some Adidas trainers and a Gap T-shirt in order to be able to wander around the city disguised as a native. I was after hard facts, so I gave the Serbian National Museum a miss and headed instead for the Gallery of Frescoes which contained full-sized replicas of paintings from remote churches in Serbia and Macedonia. I was worried that it might be closed due to the war, but the staff seemed to have mastered their trauma and it was business as usual. Luckily NATO hadn't mistaken the building for some barracks and as a result it looked totally unscathed.

Two things caught my attention. One was the religious power of the church paintings and the other was the number of representations of St. George. I hadn't really considered St. George in my investigations. True, he was on a panel of the Hungarian Crown but apart from that the only contact I'd had with him was the red crosses painted on the face of England football supporters and the Queen's Birthday Honours list. One life-sized photograph showed him with an Afro hairstyle and a shifty look on his face. He was wearing a cloak with what looked like upside-down hearts embroidered on it, and was holding a crucifix in one hand whilst doing a Royal wave with the other. He appeared to have a large flowery dinner plate stuck to the back of his head.

I looked closely at a crowd of archangels in one of the pictures, floating in the sky with their toes pointed earthwards, casting sideways glances of adoration at the enthroned Christ. A breeze rattled the panes of glass in the gallery, and the surface of the photo shimmered in the moving air, as if the archangels were quivering their wings prior to a massed lift-off. A shadow blotted out the sun in the garden outside for a second, as if a plane had swept past.

I was somewhat taken aback when the photos of the St. Georges started to look at me. I took a step backwards. There seemed to be movement in the other exhibits in the gallery. The large St. George began to peel himself from the wall, leaving an outline in the photographic paper.

I looked around quickly. I had to discover who was doing this - they had to be nearby - but the only other person there was a rather terrified looking guard who was getting to his feet. "Upomoc!" he said softly and then repeated it in a shout.

St. George peeled the halo from his head with a ripping sound and flung it like a frizbee. The edge of the paper caught the guard under his chin and sliced at his throat. He fainted, falling to the floor, and tiny photographic images of St. George on horseback galloped over his fallen body.

I was unarmed and I realised that if I didn't act quickly I was in for some pretty nasty paper cuts.

3. The St. Georges

My holiday was taking a turn for the ridiculous, as do so many of my holidays. Only I could visit Egypt and get attacked by mummies, or visit India and have to avoid being sliced up by statues of Shiva. However, not even I'd been attacked by fragments of photograph before.

My first thought was that I might have brought my Zippo, but the previous night's cigar had left me with a sore throat and I'd left it behind. Also Adidas trainers do not have the same utility in a scrap as a good pair of twelve-hole Doc Martins.

I jumped towards the large St. George and attempted to hit him on the jaw. At the last second he turned his head sideways and I cut my knuckles on the paper edge. At the same time I felt a sharp pain in my ankle. A tiny St. George had stabbed me with his paper sword. I stamped him into the floor, but I was surrounded by a crowd of them. A medium size St. George head butted me in the side and put a rip in my T-shirt. It was then that I realised that this particular brand of photographic paper possessed an unnatural strength. It appeared that I was in trouble.

I ran over to the museum guard hoping that he would be armed, but he was no more armed than a guard in the British Museum would have been. However he did have a chair. I picked it up and turned to face them.

It was impossible of course. They came in too many sizes. I swiped at big George with the chair and he absorbed the blow, folding around the legs like a rolled up poster. Whilst I was doing that a small army was hacking at my jeans. I didn't notice until one on my thigh pierced my skin and I yelped. A medium George swiped at my arm with his flat hand, karate style, and drew blood.

I tried to think. There was a fire extinguisher on the wall. I brushed the photographs from me, yelling, and grabbed it up. Pulling the hose out, I sprayed myself with the water, washing the tiny figures from me. Then I gave big George a blast straight in the face.

I been hoping that they'd go all soggy, but although the edges of their hands and swords didn't seem as sharp as before, the photos must have been laminated in some way. I could see a water stain seeping into big George's hair and tunic from the edges, but he remained as intact as before.

I ran for the ladies toilet. The water had slowed them down enough for me to pull the door of the bathroom closed, but I realised that it would only be a matter of seconds before they got in. The door began to rattle like a tent in a rain storm.

I turned on the taps in the sink. hoping for hot water to soften them further, but it was stone cold. There was a rustling and big George's head appeared under the bathroom door. He raised his head so that his neck had a ninety degrees fold in it and looked at me. He blinked once, twice. Then he resumed his wriggling, slowed slightly by the damp floor.

I spotted a bottle of toilet bleach on the window ledge. It was worth a try. I poured a generous dollop over big George before he'd quite made it to his feet. His front was laminated, but his back wasn't. The bleach began to soak in quite nicely.

He got to his feet and drew his sword. I tried to avoid the lunge but he managed to embed the point in my shoulder. The cut was minor, but the bleach wasn't. I screamed at the stinging, and lashed out with my foot, temporarily creasing him. He tried another swipe and caught my cheek. I had a smell of chlorine in my nose and my eyes filled with tears, blinding me. I wondered if the bleach had been such a good idea after all. I reached behind me into the sink and splashed a hand full of tepid water into my face.

I leapt for him, hoping to bring him to the ground with my body weight. He turned sideways so that his torso cut the skin on my shoulder but my momentum carried him down. It was like holding down a flapping fish.

I put a knee on each shoulder and tried to grab the edge of his head, hoping to rip it in two. The material was too tough and I couldn't tear it. Normally if your are kneeling on a person's arms they can't use their hands. George was massively double-jointed, being flat, and so he got me a good jab in the back of my head. I could feel him sawing at my ankles with his impossibly sharp knees.

There was a sign of movement under the bathroom door. The rest of the Georges were about to join us.

I had resigned myself to a farcical death by a thousand cuts, when big George stopped struggling. He raised his finely plucked eyebrows and his cherub mouth formed a perfect O. He looked like a bad French mime doing "surprise". Then he began to fade.

I got bleach over the rest of the Georges. It worked a treat. Soon there was nothing left but stained pieces of paper.

Afterwards I treated the guard with the first aid kit, dressing his neck wound. Taking his jacket to cover the embarrassment of my shredded clothes, I sneaked away before someone called the police and I had to make a statement explaining what had happened.

I wasn't feeling too hot by the time that I got back to the Hilton. I wasn't amused by the attempt on my life. I stripped off my ruined disguise and binned it. I examined my body. The bleach cuts looked rather nasty and inflamed, and the wound on my cheek made me look ugly. It was like having acne all over again. I was bloated and my stomach seemed slightly distended. I felt clumsy and sweaty and I wished that my period would start. I had a shower in cold water and then collapsed on the bed.

I woke up feeling depressed. I ordered some food and a pot of tea and whilst I was waiting attempted to do some exercises to get my heart rate going. It just made me tired and hot.

I went out onto the balcony but the smell of petrol which had seemed vaguely romantic the night before only made me feel sick.

The tea when it arrived was good - I drank it black and stewed - but I couldn't eat the sandwich. The bread seemed to be the wrong texture and it scraped in my mouth. I looked at the cigars in the humidor but decided that my mouth was too sensitive to smoke one. I examined the drugs that I had with me but felt too fragile to attempt a pharmaceutical treatment of my mood.

Why was my period late, I wondered? I was hardly ever late. Maybe it was an early menopause. Maybe that bastard Slava had knocked me up. Fucking ace.

I got dressed and went downstairs to play on the Internet terminal. Fortunately I was attended by an old waiter of the old school.

"Is Madam injured?" he said, gesturing at my face. He had a faint eastern European accent but his English was BBC perfect.

"I cut myself shaving," I said, accepting a gin and tonic.

"How unfortunate for Madam," he said, reminding me of Winston. "I may have some ointment or an aspirin back in the kitchen."

I smiled for the first time in hours. "Aspirin would be good. There's nothing like a mixture of gin and aspirin to put the world to rights."

"Indeed, Madam. The favoured cure-all for the seasoned traveller," he said, bowing slightly. God knows where they'd found him. Maybe he was a relic of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

My brain wasn't working. There were so many St. Georges. The famous one had been disowned by the Catholic church for not existing very much. Another one, St. George of Iberia - which turned out to be an old name for Armenia - had come to Bulgaria to convert "a tribe of Slavs" who had been ethnically cleansed from their home land by emperor Basil II Bulgarslayer. Just which brand of Christianity this St. George had brought from Armenia it didn't say. I wondered if it had anything to do with the Bogomils.

Then I looked up the South Park scripts instead and had a laugh until the Net link went down at lunchtime.

"What is there to see in Belgrade?" I asked the waiter.

"What sort of thing did Madam have in mind?"

"I need cheering up."

"Belgrade is a city full of life and laughter," he said. It appeared that Yugoslavians appreciated irony.

"Where can I buy some cannabis?"

"I can have some brought in, or you can approach nearly any group of young Belgraders. The war is quite boring, so I'm informed. Life without MTV and the Playstation lacks a certain sparkle."

"What about cigarettes?"

"Now Madam is presenting me with a slight problem. Since NATO bombed the tobacco factory there has been a shortage."

"I can pay whatever you like. Rolling tobacco and papers would be sufficient."

"Very good Madam."

I decided to go for a walk. I was a Westerner, but what the hell. At least I was a European.

For a while I had the spookiest feeling. MacDonalds was wrecked and sprayed with Serbian crosses, and the British Council Library had been burnt. In the city centre at the crossing of two main roads an enormous building had been gutted by precision bombing. Either that or someone had left the gas on. It was reminiscent of the centre of Manchester after the I.R.A. "redeveloped" it in the name of nationalism. There were a fair amount of dirt and smuts, and the sunlight seemed hyper-real. One of the buildings had an amusing graffito showing Tony Blair giving Bill Clinton a blow job. It was all very "last days of Pompeii".

Like Pompeii, people were sitting around in the ruins. Unlike Pompeii, it seemed unlikely that a cloud of superheated air would roll down from the nearest volcano and carbonise the lot of them. Not unless NATO really rolled out the bloodstained carpet.

"Do you speak English?" I asked two boys and two girls who were spliffing up in a park.

"We wouldn't want to miss Jamie Shea on C.N.N.," said one of the youths laconically. The girls giggled. They were extremely pretty and made me feel even worse than before.

"Are you from the B.B.C?" asked one girl.

"No," I said.

"You know Kate Adie?" said the second boy. "She smokes weed and fucks young soldiers."

"I don't believe you," I said. "Ms. Adie probably doesn't smoke anything stronger than cigarettes. She is the consummate professional."

"And Jaime Shea fucks goats."

"Apparently he's a Cockney, so anything is possible," I said.

This endeared me to them enough for them to offer me a toke. Their names were Mickey Mouse, Goofy, Princess Leia and Snoopy. Apparently.

"Are you having a good war?" asked Mickey Mouse.

"Tolerable," I said, "but I try to avoid it whenever possible."

"So do we," said Snoopy. "It's a drag."

"Why is NATO trying to destroy us with this criminal aggression?" asked Goofy.

"Either it's Kosovo and Milosevic, or else they felt the need to test out some of their arsenal I suppose," I said.

This brought a momentary lull in the conversation.

"A friend of mine saw some Albanians on a bus the other day," said Princess Leia. "Nobody knows what they were doing here in Belgrade."

"Maybe they work for Milosevic," I said.

"They didn't look like any of my usual dealers," said Mickey Mouse in a sardonic tone. Snoopy shushed him.

"They blew up the Hotel Jugoslavia and the television centre. They've killed civilians on a train, in buses, in refugee convoys. They attacked the Chinese and Swiss embassies," said Goofy.

"I'll do you a deal," I said. "I'll apologise for NATO if you apologise for Kosovo."

"Kosovo is nothing to do with us," said Mickey Mouse.

"Nor me," I said.

"But you are bombing us," said Snoopy.

"I'll get on the phone to Clinton and get him to call off the airforce at once."

They smiled, slowly.

"If I may make a prediction," I said. "If you think this war is a drag, just wait for the peace."

Goofy snorted derisively. "That's true," he said. "We do so enjoy watching the fireworks on the horizon and trying to guess what was hit and what sort of bomb was used."

I looked him in the eye. I would have explained how much of a curse "normal life" was to me but he must have read my mind. I glanced meaningfully at the opiate of the people that he held in his hand and raised my eyebrows. Goofy nodded sadly.

"When you burn the candle at both ends," I said, "it produces no light and is soon gone."

I had to make a decision. I could call the expedition off and return to Hungary or I could pursue my hunches and head south. A feeling of disorientation had come over me. I couldn't really decide what I expected to find in the south of Yugoslavia, but I felt that being on the ground would give me an insight into the relationship of Byzantium with its neighbours. Archaeology is field work - whatever anybody says - and so is "tomb raiding". How can you understand a battle without visiting the battlefield? How could I retract the steps of the Byzantines bearing the Greek Crown without seeing some of the obstacles for myself?

I tried to tell myself that the thought of seeing the death and destruction of a modern war first hand didn't excite me and that my interest was purely academic. I see my life as a story starring me, and going home seemed like too much of an anticlimax.

On my last night at the Hilton I woke up screaming. They'd thrown the large St. George onto a municipal tip where the sun had dried him out. His cupid face had reappeared and he was soon joined by a muddy King Stephen. They were still on my trail. I awoke, drenched. For a moment I was joyful at the feel of the soaked sheets but when I switched on the light it was sweat and not menstrual blood.

My best guess for the route involved following the E763 to Kraljevo, and then taking either the road to Kosovska Mitrovica or to Novi Pazar. Geography dictated that any itinerary from Macedonia would include Kosovo Polje and the Drenica valley, but I wanted to check out Ras, the ancient capital, and the area between Kukï¿½s and Pristina. I still thought that the Byzantine ambassadors might have sneaked over the mountains from Albania, somehow. What I needed was a monastery or a fort or a town that might have sheltered them in the middle of the rebellions. A place that also contained craftsmen capable of doing an alteration job on a Byzantine crown.

The Classic was running nicely, but it was a strain looking ahead for convoys or road blocks. Every moment I was expecting to be stopped and asked for my papers but nobody seemed to have organised anything. Maybe any police vehicle would be bombed if seen on the open road. I hoped that my khaki trousers and beaten up leather jacket didn't make me look like a member of the Yugoslav military. I didn't fancy an Apache up me jacksee.

Just north of Raske I came across the remains of a convoy. There were sad and abandoned tractors, studded with machine gun fire. There was a scattering of junk - a suitcase, a mackintosh, a shoe, a doll, a yellowed local paper, a hat. The flowers had already begun to grow up around the tyres and it reminded me of a beach on the South Coast, complete with rusty WW2 relics and the detritus of the last holiday season. There was no sign of humans, just a buzzing of insects and the cheerful sun. I expect it had been different on the day when the vehicles had first pulled off the road. I parked the Classic beside a ruined old farm trailer and smoked a cigar, head supported by a tuft of hay. Nothing passed on the main road.

I had assumed that Ras was near to Raske or Novi Pazar. For some reason there were no "ancient monument" signposts and I was having difficulty telling one pile of rubble from another. I decided that Ras was irrelevant as far as the Greek Crown was concerned and looked for a barn.

The one I found has some dead cows in it. One of these was still on its feet, leaning against the wall, staring at me with empty eye-sockets. I guessed that they had been dead for some months. They were skeletal and mummified, dry and odourless. Luckily their trough worked on a ballcock system and there was the mains water was still on. I washed my hair in the icy water and made a bed of straw. It had been just out of their reach.

I sat staring at the postcard of the Crown that I had bought in Budapest, Desert Eagle on my lap, sipping Scotch from my hip flask and chewing some stale bread. Something about the appearance of the Crown was bothering me, something to do with the mosaics of the Emperor Constantine IX and his empress, Zoe, in the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. They had been wearing Byzantine crowns, but only Zoe had pendant jewels hanging down on each side of her head. I suddenly realised that the Greek Crown was the crown of a woman, a female crown. It can't have been a present for the Hungary king. It must have been for his Byzantine queen.

Wih this thought I lapsed into a catnap, one finger on the trigger.

I can't remember anything about the next day, or the day after that. I must have skirted the outskirts of Pristina. I must have seen the cemetery and the monument to Prince Lazar at Kosovo Polje. Why I can't remember I do not know. Maybe I need hypotherapy. Maybe I cannot be bothered to remember. All that I do remember is that my period didn't start. And I remember my first sight of the town of Torbeshi.

I'd only chosen it because it had an airport and the ruins of a monstery of St.George.It wasn't special - just another Kosovan town. I suppose it depends if you believe in coincidence or not. Maybe Satanael himself led me there, to enlighten me.

I remember a house on the outskirts. There were at least two bodies inside the burnt ruins. On the floor, amongst the burnt rafters and rooftiles, was an object that resembled a large flatfish or manta ray. I eventually worked out that it was the spine and ribcage of a burnt skeleton. It didn't resemble anything human. I guess that was how the people who had shot it and burnt it had seen it. Then, in another room, was a shawled mummy with two wooden walking sticks. It was wearing an embroidered skirt. Maybe she had been too old and weak to go for water. At least she had managed to stay seated in her favourite rocking chair, next to a scorched sepia photograph of a bearded 19th century beau.

There was a small Serbian Church next to a small Albanian mosque. I wondered if the same explosion had wrecked them both. Inside the church was a worried looking icon of Mary and the stubs of candles. Inside the mosque were blue tiles and a circular shield with a wise word from Allah painted onto it. The two pulpits had been of the same height before the storm.

Then there were the family pets. A mixed mob of dogs and cats attacked me as I drove down main street. I fired the Desert Eagle in the air, but I guess that they'd heard it all before. So I shot an Alsation and a sheepdog, and the rest feasted, even the cats. Catastrophe makes strange bed-fellows except amongst humans.

Torbeshi had had a mine and a factory for processing the mined metal. That lay to the west, near to the airfield. Far above the oil-stained river and the untended fields lay the ruins of the Monastery of St. George. The monastery had been pulled down and burnt at intervals of roughly once a century by the Muslim authorities, but always some nutty Orthodox Serbian monks with a martyrdom complex had turned up to keep it going. Now, thanks to NATO, the infidel had won. After a thousand years, a form of peace.

The mine seemed the most obvious place for me to start. I'd had a certain amount of success with Natla's Mine and the RX-Tech Mines. Maybe I'd lost it. What possible light could be shed on the Hungarian crown down a Kosovan mine picked at random?

There was a cage. like a South Wales coalfield cage, but no power. I tied a rope to it and pulled it out of the shaft using the Classic. That left a rusty lift cable descending into the darkness. I took it, my Maglite clenched in my teeth. It was a long climb down.

I was aware of things glinting below me before I reached the bottom. Instead of a flat earth floor, as I'd expected, there was a mound of bodies. There was no discrimination. The youngest was about five and the oldest was about a hundred. They were dressed for a day out in the country, like little peasant dolls, with broken faces of china. There was a smell - a pestilence - and my eyes watered. I hate bad smells. The pile wasn't firm and my boots slipped, but I made it down to the bare earth.

Once I visited the underground cities in Cappodocia. The Christians had dug out a giant honeycomb in the soft stone, the entrance blocked by man-sized rolling stones to keep out the Turkish intruders. Byzantium underground. Now they had been replaced by Muslim catacombs, filled with the peaceful dead.

There was no historical reason for me to shut my eyes.

The mine tunnel looked like all tunnels, with metal props and fallen stones. There were rails for a mine cart and a conveyor belt, no longer working. Perhaps in happier days the ores of gold and silver and copper had drifted along it in a fruitful stream. Maybe the very metals for the Hungarian Crown had come from here. The distinction between Byxantine and non-Byzantine, ancient and modern, had begun to evade me.

I suppose I wasn't really paying attention when the floor gave way beneath me and I fell into a deep dark shaft.

4. The Dualists

He was exactly as Anna Comnena has described him - tall and wizened.

"Hello," he said, helping me to my feet. We seemed to be in a marble corridor decorated with golden mosaics and tapestries. "I'm Basil. Known to history as Basil the Bogomil."

"Nice to meet you," I said, shaking his hand. "I'm Lara Croft from Britain. It's off the French coast."

"I knew of it even when I was alive," said Basil. "We used to do business with a family that ran mines in Cornwall."

"So where are we now?" I asked.

"You're in a spirit place. That fall has practically killed you. Don't worry - I'll help you - but first I thought that you might like to hear the true story behind Queen Synadele's Crown."

"If I'm in a coma," I said, "how can I find out what my brain doesn't know?"

"You have all the information," said Basil, "but you haven't assembled it correctly."

"OK."

He gestured me into a dining room with antique Roman coaches and we reclined whilst servants brought us food and drink.

"We're in the Emperor Michael Ducas' palace at Constantinople," said Basil, "in about 1077 AD. I'll take you for a glimpse into the throne room when we've eaten."

"This wine is good," I said. "I really needed that."

"So," said Basil, steepling his fingers, "to the story. Unknown to everybody, the Empress Maria and I are half brother and sister, children of King Bagrat of ... well let's just call it Georgia."

"You're kidding ..."

"We have been Dualists ... what the propagandists might call Bogomils or Paulicians ... since childhood. We believe that God created the spirit world of the soul, but that the material world - including mankind - is the work of God's eldest son, Satanael."

"So your Holy Trinity consists of God the Father, Satanael the Eldest Son and Jesus the Younger Son. You reject most of the saints, most of the Old Testament, eating meat, and sex."

Basil laughed. "What you have to realise is that since Dualism has come to court it has become slightly more sophisticated than the hard-line monasticism practised by the peasants in Bulgaria. We are civilised men and women. My position in court is not dissimilar to that of Rasputin in the Russian court. Everybody knows I'm a heretic but the Imperial Family likes me and so there is no problem. Dualism been in favour for years, even back to the time of Constantine Monomachus. It was because the old boy was such a strange chap that he allowed the schism between the Eastern and Western churches to happen."

"I see," I said. "So what has all this to do with Hungary?"

"Before the present King of Hungary, Geza, could come to power, he needed to get rid of his brother King Salamon. Salamon had got the support of a bunch of mercenaries from the part of the world where Maria and I grew up, mercenaries known as the Pechenegs. We know them quite well. Salamon was a very xenophobic chap and we were really quite annoyed when he took Belgrade away from us. Therefore whilst he was still on the throne we started to woo Geza. We sent an ambassador to him - which nearly backfired when Salamon got wind of it - and we arranged a marriage between Emperor Michael's sister, Anna Synadele and Geza. When the time was right we got the Pechenegs to accept Geza instead of Salamon, and the Hungarian throne passed to Geza. Fait d'accompli. At any rate, Maria did something foolish. She doesn't realise that dodgy religious practices might be amusing in the corrupt atmosphere of the Imperial Court, but that they don't necessarily go down well elsewhere. We hadn't heard much from Queen Synadele for a while - we were worried that the Hungarians were going over to the Pope and the Germans - and so Maria sent Synadele, her daughter-in-law, a Byzantine crown. This is normal practice when we are trying to flatter our provincial allies, but Maria had designed a crown that was flagrantly blasphemous."

"In what way?"

"I'll show you," said Basil, reaching down for a decorated box. "Here it is."

I picked up the crown. It was very beautiful and was obviously the lower crown from the Royal Crown of Hungary. I turned it to look at the place where the three enamel panels has been replaced, and smiled. The first panel had an icon of Bogomil, the third an icon of St. Paul and the central a representation of Satanael. Satanael was dressed very similarly to Christ Pantocrator, but he had a red face and no beard.

"The reason nobody would have believed this," I said, "is because the Bogomils and the Paulicians are famous as iconoclasts. It would never have occurred to any historian that a naï¿½ve Empress would dare to portray Satanael in a diametrically opposite position to Jesus on a royal crown, of all things."

"In our religion the two Sons of God are equal but opposite. What seems blasphemous to the orthodox seems reasonable to us. Constantine Monomachus once tried a similar thing. The pieces of his crown were found buried in a field in Hungary at the start of the 20th century. All the damning panels had been destroyed, leaving only the acceptable ones. "

"Well I'll be damned," I said. I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from me. So many years wondering and now I finally knew. Basil took me back into the darkness. My Maglite was still lit and I could see my broken body lying on a mound of soaking rubble. He crouched down and pointed at my bloodstained fingers.

"If you could just move this hand into your backpack and touch one of your pieces of blue soap," he said.

The "blue soap" was an alien artefact that I had picked up on an earlier adventure. It had the ability to restore full health like a sort of magical first aid fit.

"Let us both concentrate on moving your hand."

I felt a tingling in my own hand the fingers of the other Lara twitched. We managed to inch it over my shoulder and under the flap of the backpack.

"One thing before you go,"said Basil.

A cold sweat had broken out on my forehead and my body felt as if it was coming out of general anaesthetic. I could feel the outlines of pain and my breathing was becoming stifled. "What?" I said.

"Just as God is omniscient, so are both his Sons," said Basil.

I shoved my fingers into the tube containing the "blue soap". "I don't believe in either of them," I said, "and even if I did, a pox on both their houses."

Basil smiled as he faded. "Just ask yourself who has been trying to kill you ..." he said.

The effect of the "blue soap" is hard to describe but if I could bottle it it would be the club drug for the next millennium. I came to slowly, little more than wet and uncomfortable. My breathing was steady and my sight, as far as I could tell, was normal. My feeling of bloatedness seemed to have disappeared as well.

I picked up the Maglite and shone it above me. It would have been possible to climb back up the shaft, but I could feel a breeze coming from the tunnel in front of me. Maybe this led out to the base of the mountain, I thought.

I picked my way along the tunnel. It didn't look like a mining tunnel. There were no props or rails and it appeared to be carved from solid rock. Maybe the miners had broken through to it before the war had started overhead.

The tunnel widened to a cavern and then I was faced by a large door. I marvelled. Yet again my sixth sense had led me straight to a tomb.

I shone my torch up at the lintel to an inscription that read "Î¸ÎµÏﾁÎ±Î ÎµÎ¸Î½ÎµÎ¹Î½ Î´rÎ± Î ÏﾁÎ¿ÏƒÎºÏ…Î½Î·ÏƒÎµÏ‰Ï‚". My Greek is very poor, but I translated it as something like "Come to an agreement with your enemy as quickly as possible".

The door had a Roman key hanging next to it, made of iron. I inserted it through the keyhole and by a process of turning and pulling managed to unlock the door. Rock door frames tend not to sag, even over centuries, and the door opened easily.

There was no light except for my torch, but I could sense that I was stepping into an area as large as a church. There was no sound of water or air moving, and dust motes danced in the beam of the torch. I drew my Desert Eagle and walked forward cautiously.

Although there are Imperial mausolea in Rome, there are no earthly remains left of the Roman Emperors. If they'd had the sense to be buried in Egypt then their mummified remains might have been piled up in a cave by grave robbers. I was therefore quite surprised when I found a roughly-hewn sarcophagus bearing the name of Constantine X Ducas.

I drew in breath. This was the archaeological find of the millennium. I walked cautiously around the tomb. It was obviously not Constantine's original burial place - the workmanship was too humble and shoddy. Was it possible that his body had been moved from the environs of Constantinople at some time before the fall of the city?

Other members of the Ducas family were there, including two Johns, two Michaels, four Constantines, two Annas, two Zoes, two Theodoras and three Andronikoses. Constantine, the fiancï¿½ of Anna Comnena was there, as well as the famous Empress Eudokia Makrembolitissa. Last but not least I found the tombs of Michael VII and Maria of Alania Wherever they'd died, at court, or in a distant monastery, someone had brought them back together. It had to be something to do with the monastery of St. George, high above on the mountain top.

If only I'd taken a camera.

At the far end of the cavern there was an enormous wall painting. At the base of the picture was the Ducas family, paying homage. Above them was a crowd of angels. Seated above them all, in a glorious triptych, was God the Father, Christ Pantocrator at his right hand, and Satanael at his left. Whether the presence of the Ducas family was wishful thinking on the part of whatever Dualist sect had built the tomb, or whether members of the family had secretly acknowledged Satanael as lord of the material world, as Basil had suggested, I couldn't tell. Amazing.

I tiptoed out of that place and locked the door behind me, returning the key to its hook. It was refreshing to be able to leave a tomb without being pursued by some unearthly monster or bringing the place down around my ears.

I could still feel the breeze that I had noticed earlier and found the beginnings of a staircase leading up into the mountain. I started to climb.

I was tired by the time that I reached the ruins of the monastery crypt on the flank of the mountain. The way out was barred by a locked metal gate and I had to shoot off the lock. I stumbled out into the bright sunshine. The air was crisp and cold, and I took a deep lungful. The sandstone blocks of the monastery walls were glowing in the sun, but the only buildings left intact was a small circular church and a hut. I called, but there was no answer.

I espied a small flock of sheep. There was a mixture of breeds and types; some had black fleeces and some had white. There was a lone collie dog guarding them. He looked emaciated, and growled as I approached. I was looking around for the shepherd, when I spotted his remains in a small tree. He had died some time ago. His naked body had been tied up to the branches, arms outstretched. He looked as if he had been whipped and he had head injuries.

I felt a pain in my stomach that momentarily doubled me in two. I gasped and tears came to my eyes. My period had finally started. I don't know if I was ever pregnant. If I was, then maybe the "blue soap" had interpreted it as the start of a tumour. Either that or my body had seen enough not to want to bring a new child into the world.

I made camp for the night in the ruins of the monastery. I was woken the next morning by the distant rumbling of tanks and the screech of low flying aircraft.

5. Diplomacy by other means

Above the monastery towered the 6,000 foot Mount Torbeshi, part of the border between Yugoslavia and Albania. I climbed up onto the roof of the old church to try and identify the sounds of military vehicles. Dug out on the slope of the mountain below me was what I later found out was a division of the Yugoslav 3rd Army, the VJ. There were several Soviet-made T-54 and T-55 tanks coming up from the town below. An anti-aircraft battery was being uncovered and groups of VJ soldiers were running to their positions in bunkers and trenches. It seemed that they were preparing for battle.

I could see a commander at the top of a watchtower. He was gazing up at the mountain through his binoculars. I squinted in the morning sun and saw what he was looking at. Armed men coming slowly down from a high corner of the mountain. They'd obviously crossed over from Albania. Members of the Kosovo Liberation Army. I looked in all directions, trying to find a way of escape, but I was sandwiched between the two armies. Then I saw the VJ soldiers outside the monastery. They were fanning out, having identified it as a forward position.

I scrambled down from the church roof, and made a dash for the entrance of the crypt.

There was a cry of "halt!" in Serbian and a burst of machine gun fire into the air.

I could have started a fire-fight then and there. There was plenty of cover and I wasn't short of ammunition. I had a vision of myself pinned down, with the forces closing in on either side. The burst of gunfire would have already attracted the attention of the KLA above. I slowly raised my hands.

Five of them were pointing rifles at me. One of them called out, and an officer appeared, one eye open for snipers.

"I'm a British tourist," I said, loudly.

One of the soldiers took my backpack and tipped it out on the ground. He pushed a grenade and my Desert Eagle with the toe of his boot.

"Who are you," said the officer, "and what are you doing here?"

"I'm a British tourist," I repeated. "There is my passport. I was looking at the ruins of the monastery."

The officer was haggard, with a thousand yard stare. His face twitched in the memory of a laugh, but he didn't laugh. "That is ridiculous," he said. "This is a battle zone."

"I am nothing to do with this war," I said. "I'm an archaeologist."

They hussled me around the back of the church, out of direct sight of the advancing KLA. More VJ soldiers were arriving, taking up defensive positions.

I found myself crouching down with the officer. He offered me a cigarette with shaking fingers.

"I do not have time to deal with you now," he said. "The Albanians are invading, as you can see. Any second now your countrymen are going to start bombing the shit out of the Federal Army."

"I see," I said.

"I'm going to send you down to the town under arrest until the authorities decide what to do with you. God knows I cannot spare a guard for you, but there is no choice."

One of the soldiers nearby made a sound of disgust and spat into the grass. There was a muttered conversation between the VJ troop around us. I didn't know what to say. I had already antagonised the situation by being there, but I felt that I needed reassurance. The VJ officer was obviously a civilised man, but I wasn't sure about some of his lads.

"Will I be safe?"

The officer laughed sourly. "Safe on a battlefield?" he said, removing a shred of tobacco from the corner of his mouth.

"Will I be safe with your men?" I trembled, but I wasn't sure whether it was because of the temerity of the question, or because of my more generalised fear.

The officer looked at me for a long minute. His face was bitter. "I know that NATO and Jamie Shea have been accusing my men of rape. As if any Serbian man would dirty himself with some filthy Shiptar whore. They are all animals. They do not wash properly, they have AIDS and they are all as ugly as sin."

I looked at him with as much sang froid as I could muster. "I see," I said. "Then I should be perfectly safe then, even though I am not an Albanian."

The officer gestured for his men to march me away. "We are losing our civilisation to a bunch of barbarians," he said. "Maybe when you are safe back at home writing your archaeology papers, you might care to reflect on the irony."

We were a thousand yards below the monastery of St. George, just above the VJ front lines, when the NATO A-10 Warthogs began to drop marker flares all around. The VJ troops flung themselves flat, pulling me to the ground with them. One of them started to weep quietly, whilst another was unable to stop himself urinating into his combat trousers. There was a moment of unearthly quietness. Not a bird sang, and even the sound of the approaching aircraft was muffled.

Then cylinders on parachutes appeared, floating quietly down from the heavens. There was several innocent sounding bangs and a cloud of objects like tennis balls where flung out in all directions above us. And then, all of a sudden, armageddon hit us.

The cluster bombs began to explode all around us, each tennis ball spraying a whizzing cloud of shrapnel in all directions. Before the entire area was covered with thick black smoke I could see the effect on the men all around me and below me.

One man, half standing, was shredded. It was like watching a special effect. The top of his head, an ear, an eye and cheek, a shoulder, some fingers, his guts, his genitals, his foot. All battered - or sliced away - by a swarm of hot metal. He made a bizarre jerking flight through the air, his gun firing as he went. The air was filled with vapourised blood and the smell of cheeseburgers. He was trying still to crawl when the fog closed in.

I was unscathed. I ripped the lining from my coat and tied it over my mouth and nose, and half belly-crawled, half rolled in the general direction of downhill.

There was a whistling sound. I only half heard the explosion as a armoured personnel carrier exploded to my right. You might have thought that the people inside wouldn't have had the reflexes to scream in time, but they did. It was like the sound of a shot rabbit. There was the clattering of 30mm gunfire from a low flying aircraft of some sort. I remembered what I read about the depleted uranium casing on the NATO bullets. Excellent for penetrating armour, but probably also excellent for Gulf War Syndrome. I tightened the material around my mouth and kept going.

The ground was shaking, and it was hard to keep going. I felt as if I was alone, despite being surrounded by the VJ army. I found that I couldn't move forward anymore. It was difficult to avoid being thrown around like a pea in a tin. I found myself hugging the ground with out-stretched arms as if I was in danger of falling into the sky. The tremors grew worse.

It began to dawn on me that this couldn't be a result of the bombing. It was an earthquake. I must have blacked out for a few seconds. It was either a few seconds or a few days.

When I was aware again, the dust was blowing away along the ground as if a helicopter was landing on me. All around me broken bodies and shredded limbs were jerked by flapping garments. I reached out and pulled a semi-automatic weapon from dead young fingers. Rolling onto my back, I looked up into the sky.

The sky was filled with angels.

They were stopping anything that looked like it had a fight left in it. I saw men from both side aiming at them with their rifles. Moments later they were consumed in pillars of blue flames. A 122mm howitzer was cranked up to maximum elevation and fired. The shell evaporated with a flash and a second later the gun and the gun crew did the same. Three tanks glittered in the blue flames, their munitions exploding inside them as they evaporated. Shadows where soldiers had once crouched were seared into the walls of the trenches. A jet flew overhead and burnt away like a cigarette paper, leaving no debris. The angels were hovering between ten and a hundred feet above the battlefield, slowly flapping their wings. They had the same expressionless faces as my St. George and they were dressed as Byzantine courtiers. The Janassaries of Heaven and Hell.

I threw away the gun and stood up slowly.

Three of the angels descended. One of them was bearing a giant golden trumpet.

"Lara Croft?" said the first angel.

I nodded dumbly.

"I am Azrael, the Angel of Death."

I clasped my hands firmly behind my back to stop them shaking.

"This is Azrafil, the Angel that Sounds the Trumpet at the Last Judgement and this is Azdemoneus, a Angel of the Fallen Host."

"Pleased to meet you," said Azrafil.

"It seems that my best attempts to stop you coming here failed," said Azdemoneus.

I found my voice. "You sent the ï¿½rpï¿½ds and the others?"

"Indeed," said Azdemoneus.

"Nothing to do with us," said Azrael, with a sideways glance.

"I was only following orders," said Azdemoneus.

"So ... you're the Angel of Death," I said to Azrael.

Azrael looked at me expressionlessly.

"Have you come for me?" I said.

"We're here to stop the war," said Azrafil, polishing his trumpet with an ornate sleeve.

"Oh," I said. My knees buckled.

"You cannot reveal the location of the tomb," said Azdemoneus.

"And you cannot say what you have seen here today," said Azrael.

"What have I seen today?" I said, weakly. "A mixture of angels from the Heavenly and Satanic Hosts cooperating to stop a battle. Who would possibly believe me?"

Azrafil helped me to my feet. His touch brought strength back into my body. "We're like the UN," he said.

"There are various places that fall under our direct protection," said Azdemoneus.

"But also it seemed unreasonable to expect peace on earth when there was a war in heaven," said Azrael.

"So this isn't Judgement Day?" I said.

Azrafil looked down at the trumpet in his hands. "Oh, that! I like to keep an eye on it. It's nice, isn't it? But a bit dangerous. If the wrong person were to try and play it ..."

"How do you practice?"

Azrafil laughed. "I don't," he said. "But I guarantee you that when I finally get to blow it the musical quality will be the last thing on people's minds as they clamber from their graves."

I didn't laugh. I felt sick. Then I fainted away.

When I came to I was lying in a Russian medical tent. I lay there for a long time and then clambered off the bunk, wheeling the intravenous drip along beside me. Peering out of the flap of the tent I could see that I was in an army encampment on the edge of the runway at Torbeshi airport. A young Russian soldier was sitting on his kit, playing a guitar. "How many years can a mountain exist before it is washed to the sea?" he sang. "How many years can a people exist before they are allowed to be free?" It never ceased to amaze me that it was always the children of the powerful rather than those of the powerless that liked singing Dylan. I wondered how for long the Russians would continue to be able to defend their empire from the encroaching infidels, and how long it would be before there were Taliban in the Kremlin.

Then I shielded my eyes from the sun, unsure of what I was seeing. There appeared to be Russian soldiers unloading a life-sized model tank from the back of a transporter.

"Hey!" said a nurse's voice. "You shouldn't be up. Major Obolenski - she's awake."

After I was returned to bed, Slava came in, in full dress uniform. He took off his peaked cap and, sitting down, took my hand. "Lara. How are you feeling?"

"What's happening?"

"We found you a few hours ago, wandering around the base of the mountain. You looked as if you'd been outside for quite some time and you were incoherent."

"I thought you were in Bosnia."

Slava laughed. "When we heard that the peace deal had been agreed we nipped down here as quickly as possible."

"Where are the British?"

"Oh," said Slava, with a wide gesture. "Around. We had a few words about the control of the airport and the monastery, but it's all arranged now. We're here to help protect the Serbian religious sites from any Albanian reprisals."

"So there are some Albanians left?"

Slava laughed again. "Don't be so melodramatic," he said. "There are thousands of women and children just over the border in Kukï¿½s. They'll be back any day now."

I lay back and closed my eyes. "Slava?" I said.

"What is it darling?"

"What is that little medal that you have on your uniform? The one with the knight on horseback holding a lance."

"Oh that," said Slava. "It's the Russian Order of the Knights of Saint George. We have so many medals, you know. It's traditional."

A little later the Permanent Under Secretary from the Foreign Office turned up. I shouldn't have been surprised.

"How are we doing?" he enquired, fingering the cuff of his tropical suit. "I'm afraid that we made a bit of a boo-boo issuing you with a diplomatic passport. No harm done however. We'll issue you with a conventional one instead. I afraid it's one of those ghastly purple EEC things. No hard feelings, eh?"

"What about the Temple at Aldwych?"

"Ah that. Well, you see the thing about the Masons is that they were a secret organisation. Now you can find out whatever you like just by picking up a book. I should think that the last time Aldwych was used was around the time of Gladstone," said the Permanent Under Secretary.

"You hoped that I would come here, didn't you?" I said. "You must have quite an extensive dossier on me. How did you know about my interest in the Hungarian Crown?"

"Oh, you know," said the Permanent Under Secretary. "Lots of our chaps know you and your family. You're quite well known."

"How did you know that I'd attract the attention of the powers that be, as it were? How did you manage to get the idea into my head to come right here, right now?"

"I've absolutely no idea what you are talking about dear girl."

"I was your secret weapon to end the war, wasn't I? I attracted Satanael's attention."

"Don't be silly," said the Permanent Under Secretary. "In order to execute such a devious plan, we'd have to be omnipotent. I think that bump on the head - or whatever happened - has made you feel a bit got at. As for Satanael, from what I can remember from my medieval studies at Oxbridge, he ceased to be important at about the time that the Cathars were wiped out."

Of course I couldn't mention the angels or the Ducas tomb. Nobody wants the Angel of Death on their back.

A few weeks later I was reading an article in Newsweek. "It appears that NATO bombers, flying at 15,000 feet above Mount Torbeshi, were often fooled by decoy tanks made from milk-carton material, or wood-burning stoves with the chimneys angled to make them look like guns," it said. "Therefore although initial eye-witness reports talked of hundreds of Yugoslav casualties, this does not seem to have been borne out by investigators on the ground. However the raid on the mountain was said to be the final blow to the tottering Serb tyrant; two days later he directed his generals to comply with a Serbian withdrawal."

I found myself doodling on an A4 pad. On it was a quote that I had copied down from Brewster's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. "According to the Koran," it said, "there are four archangels; Michael, Gabriel, Azrael and Azrafil." On the television a NATO forensic team was digging up the ruins of an Yugoslavian house apparently filled with the remains of shot and burnt Muslims. I switched it off.

I walked out into the grounds with a cigar and a glass of gin. Next to the shooting range I had dug a square of bare earth. Into it I had put a packet of African Violet seeds that I had bought at the local garden centre. I crouched down next to my only ever effort at gardening.

The seeds had failed to germinate. Maybe I had over-watered them. Maybe I had planted them at the wrong time of year. Maybe the soil of the Croft Mansion was unsuitable for new life.

Business as usual then.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: GM

**Chapter Three: GM**

1. NATLA ATGAACGCGTATCTCGCG...

It was a few days after my thirty-first birthday. I was sitting cross legged by the side of a field on the Croft Estate in the cool pre-dawn, shotgun resting against my thighs. The air was still and clean and damp and smelt of that best of all smells, the green English countryside at night. Slowly the sky became more grey and the shadows of hillocks, and tufts of grass ahead of me began to solidify into three dimensional shapes.

I knew that they liked to come out with the first rays of the sun. I'd taken the precaution of stationing myself upwind of the warren in a place where I wouldn't make a silhouette against the sky. I waited.

I saw a head poke out of the ground just as the first rays of the sun cleared the horizon. He sniffed the air and I could see his ears scanning all directions like radar. He decided that it was 'all clear' and so a bunch of them suddenly appeared. The younger ones were about the size of kittens and they frisked and leapt and chased. The oldest one remained sat up on his hind legs, wrinkling his nose suspiciously.

I brought the shotgun up to my shoulder and aimed. I got one of them with one barrel and winged another with the second as it was dashing for shelter, white tail flashing. I walked over. The first was dead, but the second was writhing and squealing. "Sorry about that, old chap," I said, and broke its neck to end its misery.

Don't get me wrong. I love rabbits. But it is also true that as well as tasting very good in one of Winston's pies they make excellent target practice. I picked them up and, by threading the left leg of each rabbit through the bones of the right, hung the carcasses on the barrel of my gun. Then I prepared to stroll home.

I walking past one of my government sponsored fields of oil seed rape when a couple of tatty looking vans can rumbling down the track. I stepped into the shadow of a bush and watched.

A crowd of young people wearing white environment suits scrambled out. They looked a little bit like Viz's Spoilt Bastard. They had lights, large bags marked "Biohazard", shears and a video camera. A rather earnest looking young woman stood in front of the "Experimental Crop" sign and began to 'do a piece to camera'. Apparently they were called Genetic Bollox and they had taken a dislike to my crop.

I stepped out of the shadows, freshly loaded gun under one arm and rabbits dangling from my other hand.

"Good morning," I said. "Can I help you?" The video camera swung in my direction.

The rather earnest girl out a faint shriek when she saw me. "You shot those rabbits," she said.

I held up the rabbits. Blood was dripping from them. "Well it's easier than boring them to death," I said.

"Murderer," she said.

"Murderer with a loaded shotgun," I said.

"Do you realise that you are poisoning the environment with these plants?" asked a young man.

"I admit that that oil seed rape is rather aesthetically unpleasing," I said. "I'd rather have had barley, but the money is good."

"These plants are genetically modified," he said. "Dangerously toxic pollen is being spread all over the countryside."

"Well I sympathise with hay fever sufferers," I said, "but business is business."

"You being deliberately obtuse."

"This is my estate," I said, mildly. "I'll be as obtuse as I please. And you're all trespassing, by the way."

They decided to ignore me after that and dashed over the fence into the field. They began to stuff armfuls of oil seed rape into their Biohazard bags as if their lives depended on it.

An Englishwoman's castle is her home and all that, so I shot out the windscreens of their vans. After a moment's shocked horror and a hurried discussion, they carried on harvesting. They had balls, I'll give them that. So I shot a couple of them instead.

I was at breakfast a few days later when a strange package arrived. I was busy reading the Times, when Winston came in, carrying the parcel on his bullet proof silver salver. He was wearing his old ARP helmet and a flak jacket.

"What's that?" I said, putting down my bacon sandwich.

"It was left outside the front door, Miss," said Winston. He put it down gingerly in the fire place so that it was shielded on three sides by brickwork.

"And why are you carrying it like that?"

"I just thought, after you wounded those protesters the other day ..."

I laughed. "Don't be silly," I said. "They weren't the ALF." I crouched down and looked at the parcel. What I saw made me draw in my breath sharply.

"Miss?" said Winston. "Should I call the bomb squad?"

"I don't think so," I said. "Tell me - have you mislaid your reading glasses again?"

Stamped onto the parcel was the hydrogen atom logo of Natla Technologies.

I unwrapped the parcel gingerly out in the firing range, wearing protective clothing and using some of Winston's yard long cutlery. Inside was a laptop computer, the same sleek black machine that Natla had used to hire me for the Scion expedition. Gingerly I pushed open the screen.

"Hi there Lara," said that familiar low American voice. "Great to see you again."

Natla was looking well, in a Sonnenkinden sort of way. Her hair was very blonde and her tanned skin was very smooth. She laughed, showing perfectly pearly teeth, and waited.

"Is it some sort of programme?" I whispered to Winston.

"I've no idea, Madam," he said. "The last computer that I tried to use was the Pong console and I couldn't fathom that."

"Hey Lara," said Natla. "You're live. Switch on the camera."

I hesitated. "How do I do that?" I said, pulling off my gloves.

"Use the mouse ball and click it on the video icon. Look for a red light next to that lens thing above the computer screen."

The mouse ball had been used by someone with a sweat problem; it was very greasy and smelt of body odour. The red light came on and I wiped my fingers on my thigh.

"There you are!" said Natla. "You haven't changed a bit. Bodacious as ever."

I ignored this. Natla's grasp of American slang was quirky at the best of times. "How did you get out of Atlantis?" I said.

Natla laughed and took a sip from a tall drink. "Well how did you get out, Lara?"

"I climbed out," I said.

"And I flew out."

"But I shot you."

"Bygones," said Natla, with an airy wave of her hand.

"What do you want?"

"I just thought you might dig a holiday. I wanted to invite you to join me here on my ranch."

I expect that a normal reaction to Natla's matter-of-factness would be to have been horrified. She was such a psychopath. I, however, was amused.

"Why on earth would I 'dig' that?" I said. "We're not exactly bosom buddies."

Natla smiled. "No reason why we shouldn't be," she said. "Bosom buddies, that is." Her eyes twinkled.

"We'd end up trying to kill each other."

"If I'm doing anything that seriously bums you out, you're welcome to try and kill me again. Until then I thought that we could be ... what's that English word? Mates?"

I wavered. If Natla was in another of her world altering moods eventually it would affect me.

"'Bums' me out?" I said.

"Don't say you're not curious."

I was curious. "Maybe I should check up on you," I said. "What's that other American phrase? - One is better being on thhe inside of the tent pissing out than on the outside of the tent pissing in?"

Natla laughed and clapped her hands. "You crack me up, Lara," she said.

Natla Technologies owned their own transatlantic jet, and despite that, I expect I could have got round the presence of my name and photo at all US custom posts simply by using Natla's patronage. Her ranch, Pajarito Mesa, was situated between an Indian reservation, the Los Alamos National Laboratory and the Santa Fe National Forest. Which was nearly impossible, in terms of planning permission and national security. As I understood it not even the President would have been able to build a residential and laboratory complex there, but maybe Natla was more powerful than that. Maybe she'd always owned the land.

A limo with the plates "JN24" picked me up from the tarmac and I amused myself with the icemaker and a bottle of Bourbon on the journey. Despite the fact that it had been a luxury jet, my back was stiff and my shoulders ached. It felt like I was developing some sort of rash over my shoulder blades and my bra strap chaffed.

From what I could see out of the window America was still too big. Even the wilderness looked a bit like a film set. The wild animals had probably all been documented and tagged for research projects, whilst their lairs and nests had been turned into covert film sets to supply endless 24 hour natural history footage for the Discovery channel.

Having applied some Dutch courage, I checked my arsenal. Over one shoulder I had my rocket launcher with shells in my backpack. In my thigh holsters I had put my Browning automatics, and I had my M16 slung over the other shoulder in case I had to bring Natla down from the air at a distance. I had my knife in my sock and my "first aid kit" in my bag. There wasn't too much I could do to stop her slinging fireballs at me, but my clothes were all made of fire-retardant material and my hair was tied in the tightest pigtail that my scalp could manage. I'd discovered young that nothing cramps the day more than a burnt fringe.

The limo drove up a long dusty road to a place that looked like a cross between South Fork and the Manhattan Project. A sign over the gateway read "Welcome to Parajito Mesa." I let the catch off my rocket launcher.

The chauffeur opened the door for me, and I stepped out, launcher on shoulder.

"Ms. Natla will be along to see you in a minute," said the chauffeur, politely. "Shall I take your bags into the house?"

"No thanks," I said.

"If there's nothing else I'll park the car," he said.

"Go ahead," I said.

The car drew off around the side of the building, leaving me standing in the hot sun. Then I heard a sound that I couldn't place immediately. Something about it gave me goosepimples. I scanned around me, trying to identify it. The house was silent and still, and the dry slopes of the valleyside were empty. The sound reminded me of the sail of a yacht moving in a gentle breeze, except that it was repeated rhythmically every second.

The sound grew quite loud and a small duststorm blew up. A shape descended from out of the sun and landed elegantly in front of me, folding her giant crimson bat wings.

"Phew!" said Natla, pulling off her vest with a tearing of velcro, and mopping her face with it. "Beats jogging any day."

We stood there - Natla in her sports bra, jogging bottoms and expensive trainers, and me with my rocket launcher - whilst a servant appeared from within the house with a jug of chilled drink.

"Thanks, Guy," said Natla. "Lara! It's lovely to see you. I'd give you a big hug ... have a drink of lemonade." She smiled like an orthodontist's wet dream. She looked as if she'd been taking lessons in a Hollywood charm school on how to "give face".

"I'm quite tempted to shoot you, Natla," I said. "Perhaps if you stopped grinning at me like that it would help."

Natla shrugged, her wings rustling. "OK, babes," she said.

"Babes, darling, sugar and honey buns are not appellations that I feel even remotely pleased about, Natla."

Natla choked on her drink and started laughing. "Honey buns? Bosom buddies? Is there a subtext here?"

"No."

"How do you think I'm looking? Pretty buff, eh? I must be the best advert for Grey Power in the state."

"I'm very not interested in the Californian cult of body worship. Neither of us are believable adverts for the 'beautiful is good' philosophy."

"Oh ho!" said Natla with a smile. "We are up on our high horse aren't we?"

I shuffled my feet, irritated, and took a firmer hold on the launcher. "So how are your plans for the human race going, Natla? Is evolution still in a rut?"

Natla shook her head in exasperation. "I really did invite you for a holiday," she said. "Can't we just have some fun?"

"Fun? That's like suggesting that I have fun in a cage full of hungry lions."

"But that is your idea of fun. Isn't it?"

I smiled slowly. I lowered the the rocket launcher and stepped forward, hand out-stretched.

Natla hugged me, her wings rustling around our ears. She brushed her lips near my ear.

"So lonely," she whispered.

For some reason I was starving, starving and exhausted. Maybe the long flight and the continual tension of being around Natla again was taking its toll. Maybe I was just getting old. My shoulders itched and ached. It felt like I had an allergic reaction over my shoulders blades, an itchy swelling. Maybe my immune system had finally developed an aversion to the States. I found that I couldn't stop eating. It was almost embarrassing, and I wondered for a second if I was pregnant again.

I was feeling so odd that I decided that if Natla was going to kill me, she might as well get on with and I wouldn't put up a struggle. As a result I relaxed.

"Do you like Glenmorangie?" said Natla, indicting a bottle of whiskey that Guy had brought in on a tray.

I actually thought that Glenmorangie had tasted a bit peculiar in recent years - I blamed acid rain - but I accepted a large glass.

"Cheers," said Natla, raising a glass of champagne, her wings folded gracefully behind her. "Lovely to have you here."

"May I smoke?" I said.

Natla laughed and started flinging open all of the windows and doors. "If you like I can screen you and tell you if you are unlikely to develop mouth and lung cancer," she said.

Guy came forward with a cigar clipper and then lit my Montechristo for me. "Thanks," I said, and smiled in spite of myself.

I told her about the Olympeans and my trip to Mars.

"That was close," said Natla. "Unpleasant people, I always thought. Obsessed with religion."

"One thing that you can't be accused of," I said.

"I'm strictly a science sort of gal," said Natla, with a twinkle in her eye.

"Quite," I said, trying not to smile.

Natla insisted we watched Psycho in her cinema. I didn't argue. I had a lot of scotch to drink, and Psycho is a personal favourite. It was easier than conversation.

"You know when they put that stuff on the Voyager spacecraft in case any aliens wanted to know about humans?" remarked Natla. "I think a copy of Psycho would have been most informative."

"It's quite a good metaphor for the 20th century," I said, "especially the murder in the shower. White tiles, sharpened steel and dark blood. Bodies wrapped in plastic and dumped in the boot of a car. Even the most blood thirsty soldier from earlier times would have been horrified at the emotionlessness and clinicalness."

"And then you could tell them about death camps and Death Row, and the bureaucracy of genocide," said Natla cheerfully. "Tihocan would have had a fit. He'd have the whole lot of you in stasis."

"Sometimes I wonder ..." I said, staring into my whiskey glass.

"I know," said Natla. She put her hand over mine. "Maybe we're outsiders ..."

"Maybe," I said. I must have been tired or drunk, because I put my other hand over hers. It was "intense", as they say.

Then at my instigation we watched the bit in The Birds when Tippi Hedren is cornered in the attic. I laughed with the sort of devilish glee that I reserve for horror films, but Natla looked pale. She'd frozen the DVD and rewound it to Hedren's face, which looked dazed with horror as the crows flew at her and she scrabbled behind her trying to find the handle of the attic door.

"Horrible," said Natla. Her hands were shaking. "Immaculate and in control, but then ... horrible."

When I awoke in the middle of the night in one of Natla's guestrooms, I knew that there was something wrong with me. My limbs ached very slightly and my back felt terrible.

I went into the bathroom and examined myself in the mirror. When I saw my shoulder blades I had to hold on to myself firmly. I hate sickness and I was on the verge of throwing up. There appeared to be two scarlet lumps over my shoulder blades. They looked like dislocated bone under skin or a very vicious allergic reaction.

I went over to the phone.

"Yes, Ms. Croft?"

"Who is this?"

"This is Nancy Coombs, Ms. Croft. In charge of the night staff."

"I think that I need a doctor."

"What seems to be the problem, Ms. Croft?"

I would have explained my personal medical history down the phone to a complete stranger but at that moment I fainted.

"Lara?" said Natla. "Wake up darling."

I was lying face down on a starched pillow in a brightly lit room. It felt as if there was some sort of contraption holding the sheets away from my back. Like a burn victim.

"Lara?"

"Where am I?"

"In the clinic. Dr. Morfitt says that you're doing very well."

"You're doing very well," said a pudgy bespectacled individual in a lab coat. He seemed rather in awe of Natla.

"What happened?" I said. "What's happened to my back?"

Natla and Dr. Morfitt glanced at each other, Natla smiling and Dr. Morfitt going through the motions of a smile.

"There's been a bit of a ... how do we put it, Dr. Morfitt?"

"Erm ... an occurence. A medical occurence?"

"No shit," I said. "That would explain why I'm here in hospital then. It's not just an open day."

"Your genes have done something interesting," said Natla, crouching down and smiling winningly. She looked like a child who'd brought their parent breakfast in bed, anticipating praise but wondering if the burnt toast and cold tea would spoil it a bit.

I gave her a narrow stare. I would have leapt up, but I didn't know if I was hooked up to anything. "Genes, Natla?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"Before you start - yes, it was me. But it's reversible, and I thought that you might like it. So don't go off on one."

I remembered the lap top computer. "You put stuff on the mouse ball of that PC you sent me, didn't you?"

Natla shuffled her feet. "It's a DMSO-based oil that delivers genetic material straight through the skin."

I shuddered and my whole body went cold.

"Dr. Morfitt," said Natla in a calming voice. "Could you wheel that mirror around here?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

There was a squeak of wheels.

"Have a look Lara," said Natla, lifting back the sheet.

I had a look. She'd given me wings.

2. RED BULL ...CGGGAGGACNNNNNNNCTCCTC...

The next few days were a little tedious. I wanted to kill Natla, of course, but I didn't feel well enough. I could have walked away from Pajarito Mesa, but I had a feeling that the wings would attract attention. Natla had a permanent look of patience on her face.

"Just try them out for a while and if you don't like them, I've got an excellent plastic surgeon," she said.

"You expected me to be pleased didn't you?" I said, sitting on a stool in one of Natla's velcro-fastened outfits, sipping tea.

"Not all at once," said Natla.

"Why shouldn't I kill you?"

"You need my surgeon."

"Why shouldn't I kill after you've fixed me?"

"Well there wouldn't be any point then, would there darling?" said Natla, reasonably.

The wings ... what were my first reaction to the wings? Several days passed and once I'd got over the shock and begun to feel better, I became curious. I'm no physiologist, but if one just grafts a pair of wings onto someone, they won't work. The muscle and nerve connections may well be there, but the necessary neuronal pathways in the brain will not be. If you sew a pair of legs onto a person who has been legless from birth, they will not be able to walk.

However the more I examined my wings, the more of a genius I realised that Natla must be. I could flap them, or fold and unfold them. I didn't think how to do it - I just good. Natla's genetic material must have reprogrammed my brain to have a new instinct for flight. If I flapped them vigorously it was exhausting, but I could lift my toes a few inches above the carpet. I found myself hovering in my room, giggling and gasping, with the curtains and bedclothes jerking in the breeze.

Secondly, there is no natural living thing with four limbs and two wings. Pegasus the flying horse doesn't count, and insects have more than two legs and a segmented torso. Natla had arranged it so that my arms still worked and that my shoulders and shoulder blades coped with two sets of limbs close together. It would have been interesting to see a X-ray of my upper half. My breasts were smaller - my whole body seemed smaller and lighter - but it all looked good. Anybody else but Natla would have won several Nobel prizes.

Another surprising thing about the wings was that they weren't feathery but leathery. Red and leathery, just like Natla's. As a result instead of feeling like a head of hair on a new pair of arms, as no doubt feathers would have felt, the wings were covered with sensitive skin. It was pleasureable to stroke them. There was a large "walk in" shower in my suite and I found myself gently soaping my wings, like a bird grooming itself. It felt very nice. Flapping the wings to dry them, and feeling the warm air flowing over such a large area of skin - well, it was almost indecent.

In spite of myself I found myself starting to admire Natla. She was brilliant, beautiful and powerful. And she wanted to be friends. I have a hard heart, but there are limits, and my tendency to treat potentially lethal situations as part of a jolly game wasn't helping. I began to wonder what else Natla had done to my head, aside from teaching me flight.

"Welcome to Natla Industries," said Natla, gesturing around the corporate water gardens. "King Nebuchadnezzar used to boast that it needed 300 gallons of water per day to keep his Hanging Gardens booming in the desert. This place needs twenty times that much."

The air was filled with the scent of flowers underlaid by the stench of orchids. Unfamiliar fluorescent insects buzzed between efflorescent flowers, whilst nearby vast Venus flytraps flexed their jagged jaws. Wild riffs of water captured rainbows from the harsh sunlight, and beneath the liana-draped banana trees kingfishers chased the flying fish who were chasing the dragonflies.

"Welcome to Natla's Fairy Grotto," I said. "Couldn't you have had a coloured river like they have in Debenhams?"

Natla laughed and placed a hand in my shoulder. "Oh come, Lara. Don't be a grouch. Admit it - it's fabulous."

"It's a fabulous demonstration of the wealth and power of Natla Technologies."

"Exactly," said Natla, pleased. "That's point. And it's more cuddley than a giant block of flats."

"Or a giant badly-lit pyramid containing walls that pulse with blood," I said.

"There you go then," said Natla clapping her hands. "Let's do a tour of the labs." I made a mental note to give up irony.

We drove a little electric cart into the main building. I was half expecting to see a Munchkin or an Oompa-Loompa.

"Have you heard of the Human Genome Project?" asked Natla.

"People with more money than sense (and with the instincts of stamp collectors) cataloguing every human gene in the hope of enlightenment?"

"That's the one," said Natla, cheerfully. "Well we have the complete genome of every species on the planet, even some of the extinct ones."

I looked at her. She looked smug. "All of them?" I said.

"Even T Rex," she said. "Although as you well know from your own experiences, T Rex is not extinct. But it gets even better."

"How?"

"We have proteomes, transcriptomes, metabolomes, phenomes ..."

"Pheromones?"

Natla laughed. "To cut a long story short, the remnants of ancient race of Atlantis possess more biological knowledge about this planet than you guys ever dreamt of."

We had reached a laboratory door that was situated in a long corridor of laboratory doors.

"Come and have a peek," said Natla. "Mind your wings."

A scientist was sitting looking at a dodo, notebook in hand. The dodo let out a squawk, and he made a note. The dodo defecated on the bench top, and he made another note.

Natla picked up a packet of bird food and tipped some into her hand. She made clucking noises. "Come here, my pretty," she coaxed, holding out her hand.

The dodo tried to lean over to feed without moving its feet. It overbalanced, rolled off the edge of the bench and landed on its head. There was a crunching noise.

Natla sighed and threw the bird food into the bin. "Never mind the ethics of bringing back extinct creatures," she said. "Some of them seem to deserve to be extinct."

Later we were in a large hall eating melted Ben and Jerry ice-cream out of the cartons.

"How have you managed to amass so much information in such a short time?" I asked.

"I've had a forty years head start," said Natla. "I had the human genome before Crick and Watson published their work on DNA. We had biological parallel processing computers working before you guys had transistors."

"So what on earth were you doing with the Scion?" I said.

Natla looked sheepish. "It's kind of hard to explain," she said.

"Try me."

Natla leaned back on the folded wings and steepled her fingers. She took a deep breath and gazed up at the ceiling. "Can you imagine," she said eventually, "what it would feel like to be blasted out of hibernation by an atomic bomb and then to find oneself in a world full of metal machines? My last memory was of shouting at Tihocan and Qualopec; I was still furious when I woke up alone in a radioactive desert. No troops, no servants, no Atlantean technology - I felt lost."

"What did you do?" I asked. "How did you manage - after the desert?"

"I was still wearing my gold and jewellery when they froze me, and my golden helmet of state. I wandered south and found myself in Mexico. I still had the power to discharge fire from my fingers. I mastered the language. I shepherded the money I managed to get. I invested. I bought the land that Pajarito Mesa stands on. The rest you know."

"Why all that mining to dig up Atlantis?"

Natla sighed. "I made a vow to find home," she said. "Seems silly now, but at the time ... maybe I wasn't thinking straight."

On the way out, we stopped by a display case. Inside, preserved, was one of Natla's blood red creations - a bull.

"One of the first things I made outside Atlantis," said Natla, softly, touching the glass. "My first attempt at something normal."

I looked at the red bull and wondered why Natla felt the need to make anything at all.

"There'll be a bit of a jerk as you're lifted off the ground," said Natla, handing me the water-skiing handle. She capped her hands and grinned excitedly. "Just remember to keep your wings unfurled."

The rope was laid on the desert in front of me and ended up wound around a large reel on the back of the beach buggy. Natla ran to her own ski rope.

"Ready?" said her voice over my earpiece.

"Go for it," I said into my helmet mike.

"Take it away boys!"

The beach buggies revved their engines and then lurched off. The rope cracked, almost jerking the handle from my gloved fingers and then I was airbourne. One wing must have been extended slightly more than the other for I did a three hundred and sixty spin in mid air. I concentrated as the warm air swept past my body and then I got the horizon back to horizontal.

"Whoa," said Natla's voice. "You'll be doing an Immelmann turn next."

"Funny," I said, breathlessly.

I felt myself climbing into the sky as the rope in front of my was paid out. The sun had already darkened my sunglasses and the desert stretched to the horizon all around us, austere and heart-achingly beautiful. How I love deserts. Nowhere else can a human feel such clarity of thought and emotion.

I furled the tip of one wig so that I veered sideways from the line of dust blown up by the buggies below me. It was like water skiing, but in three dimensions, and with no need for firm legs.

"Race you," said Natla.

"It'll rip my wings off if we go much faster."

"Nonsense," said Natla, laughing. "Just furl them. Reduce the surface area. Like a sail boat in a gale or a hawk diving."

"I'll have a go."

"Foot down" said Natla to the buggy drivers.

I could hear the wind through my helmet and I nearly let go of the handle. I put my head down like a competitor in the Tour De France and folded my wings. My speed relative to the ground didn't seem much different but I could feel it. I could feel it in my body. A wave of pleasure swept over me and I gasped.

"Yee haw!" shouted Natla. "They should make this a goddammed Olympic event."

I could see out of the corner of my eye that she was edging closer to me. Before, with our wings outstretched it would have been impossible, but now ...

"Give me your hand!" said Natla.

"I need both my hands."

"No you don't, not at this speed. Trust me."

"I'll tumble," I said.

"Not if you use your wings you won't."

I hesitated. If I fell, I reasoned, I could glide back to earth. "Bloody hell!" I said, and tentatively loosened the fingers of my right hand.

"Here - reach out to your side."

"Damn it," I said and flung out my arm. I would have gone into a hopeless spin the next moment but Natla grabbed my hand. We stabilised. I felt like Lois Lane.

"There you go, babes," said Natla. I could see her smiling at me. Her left wing was brushing against my right wing and I was intensely aware of it, as if I had burnt skin. Her fingers were warm in mine.

"This is ... gosh!" I said, to my embarrassment.

"Fucking A?" said Natla.

"Quite," I said.

Unfortunately at that moment I let go of my handle. I somersaulted in a clattering of wings and Natla let go of her handle as well. We fell. I screamed, but Natla laughed. She pulled me to her and wrapped herself around me so that we were face to face.

"Calm down and use your wings," she said, trying not to giggle. I did as I was told and suddenly we stopped falling. The four wings opened out on four sides and we began to drift gently downwards like an opened umbrella.

I found myself in a tight embrace with Natla, my eyes staring into her eyes. She smiled sweetly.

"Have I ever told you what gorgeous eyes you have?" she said, holding me closer. Our breasts were crushed together and our thighs intertwined. I felt dizzy.

"Lara?" said Natla.

"I heard you," I said, blushing. "About the eyes."

Natla leaned forward and kissed me gently on the lips. My mind tried to rationalise it. I'd been kissed by a girl before. At school. No big deal.

She kissed me again and stroked the fine hair on the nape of my neck with her fingers.

After we hit the ground we lay there in the red-tinted shade of our wings, kissing deeply.

All of a sudden I was in love.

3. HARPY TOWN ...CATGCCAGGCCCTACNACCNNNTGGAAT...

"The original Harpies were vultures with the heads and breasts of women," said Natla. "They stank, and contaminated everything that they touched. Not very appealing."

"So you've decided to Disney them up for your theme park," I said, smoothing a ruffle in her wing with my fingers.

"Not exactly," said Natla. She looked excited.

We were bumping up a track from the helicopter, surrounded by the semi-tropical vegetation of Isla Tiburón. The Natla Technologies jeep had been given a jolly coat of paint and a logo that read "The Mythology Experience". We were approaching a giant wooden gateway topped with the same logo and flanked by searchlights. Natla pressed a remote control and the gates swung open. She giggled and glanced at me, eyes shining. I gave her my best kind smile.

"There's only one bit finished at the moment, but eventually we're going have centaurs and sphinxes and hydra. A Cyclops. A Medusa. It's going to be the greatest show on earth."

We followed a signpost that read "Harpy Town."

"It's amazing how much personality the Harpies have," Natla was saying. "They've been here just under a year, but already they have a council, a language ... even a religion."

"A religion?" I was amazed. "Not you, by any chance?"

Natla laughed. "No," she said. "They've created a god of sleep that we've nicked-named Morpheus. They've even built a sort of statue to it."

"Why a god of sleep?"

"It's an extremely sensible choice, given their circumstances. You'll see."

We were entering a town square. Two things about it immediately struck me as strange. The buildings were all very ponderous, with tiny grated windows and thick stone walls. The wall and the rooms were decorated in a way that looked like a herd of wild cats had been using them to sharpen their claws. Every external surface was scoured with vicious looking scratch marks.

The second odd thing was the statues. There were grotesque stone figures everywhere, most of them facing the east, and frozen in snarling postures of defiance. They were about ten feet tall, and winged, with taloned feet and brutally clawed hands. Their skins were grey and scaled, and their faces were like gargoyles.

Natla stopped the jeep. "Welcome to Harpy Town," she said "What do you think?"

I looked around at the building and the statues. "Very picturesque," I said. "Well done." I kissed her on the cheek.

"You don't get it, do you?"

"What?"

"After dark, these things ..." she gestured at the statues "... come to life."

"Oh," I said. I should have known from my previous encounters with Natla's centaurs that she had a knack for making animals that could freeze like statues.

"The sunlight activates photosensory apparatus in their skins and that starts off a signal cascade that leads to paralysis. Most of their muscles lock up into a rictus, and their bodies go into hibernation."

"And their minds?"

Natla looked a little sheepish. "We think that they may retain some consciousness. A bit of a slip-up in my design there. That might be why they are so bad-tempered when they wake up, and why they call on the god of sleep for protection. During daylight a small child could kill them with a penknife and they'd be unable to do anything about it. And they know it."

I walked over to a Harpy, and reached up to touch its chest. I wanted to tell Natla how cruel she'd been, but she was like a child with a crap drawing looking for approval from a parent.

"And you reckon people will pay to see this?" I said, eventually, looking into the Harpy's reddish eyes for signs of life.

"Are you kidding, babes?" said Natla. "Just you wait 'til the sun goes down."

Natla had locked the jeep into a fortified garage and we'd taken up residence in the one of the buildings.

"Welcome to Hotel California," said Natla.

The house was like a ski lodge built by Teutonic knights, luxurious, in a claustrophobic kind of way.

"It's self catering I'm afraid, but they should have left us some stuff in the fridge," said Natla. "Let's have a look."

We had a look. There was a tureen of chilled ham and artichoke soup, smoked salmon envelopes, poitrine of duck, pigeon and beetroot compote, green Thai curries, creamy veal crepes, Florida and Waldorf salads, delicately scented steamed rice, fresh sorbets, loganberry fool and Minnesota cheeses.

"Are we expecting company?" I said.

Natla giggled. "Open this," she said, passing me a magnum of Bollinger.

"You realise that we're only here for one night," said Natla. "The day after tomorrow is the eclipse. We'd be stuck indoors."

"I didn't know you could see it from here," I said. "I thought that it was passing over St. Kitts and Nevis."

"It's partial, but that will be enough for the Harpies."

"And I went and left my piece of smoked glass back in England."

Natla showed me a large viewing room, with lots of television screens in it.

"We've got cameras all over the place, even in the Temple of Morpheus."

"Temple?" I said.

"OK," said Natla. "So it's a large cave with a blobby pile of rocks in that looks vaguely like a human figure."

"Do they shelter in there during the day?"

"I installed floodlights."

I looked at her. "Why?"

"I couldn't really take people on the tour in there with active Harpies around, could I? The lights come on in synch with the sunrise."

"Very practical" was the most polite thing that I could think of to say.

Later we were sitting a sofa drinking more Bolly. I managed to persuade Natla to allow me to smoke a cigar; unable to open the windows she was wafting the smoke away with a hand-held electric fan whilst wearing a cycling mask.

"It seems strange ..." I began.

"What?" said Natla.

"You have all this scientific knowledge, and yet the first application that you come up with is a leisure activity designed to make money."

Natla laughed. "It's the American way," she said. "It was that or create a new weapons system."

I winced.

"Joking aside," said Natla, "there was no alternative. Can you imagine me going to the FDA or some other government agency and telling then that I have a cure for cancer which I developed using ancient Atlantean knowledge?"

"Couldn't you skip the Atlantean bit?"

"Maybe," said Natla. "However you have to realise that my cure for cancer wouldn't be based on a drug or a pharmaceutical agent. It would involve gene therapy and messing around with the human genome. I'd be about as popular as Galileo."

"I see."

"I'd have to submit my original research - impossible. I'd have to deal with organised religion and pharmaceutical multinationals - impossible. I could try giving my information away, but nobody would believe how advanced it is. They'd dismiss it as science fiction and lock me up."

"So, basically, you could save the human race from disease and starvation, but you can't."

"Ironic, isn't it?" said Natla, with a smile. "That's why I decided to create The Mythology Experience. People can cope with science if it is presented like Disneyland. Or that's what I'm hoping."

I exhaled some smoke rings. "Good luck."

"I need your help, Lara," said Natla, brushing a stray hair away from my face.

"In what way," I said, touching her hand.

"I need you to tell me what is morally acceptable."

I burst out laughing. "Me?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, you. You were brought up human. I was brought up divine. Goddesses don't really have much use for ethical dilemmas. They want it, they just do it. In my world only might is right."

"You want me to be the conscience of the human race? I'm just not qualified. You need a cleric or an academic."

Natla snorted. "Now you're just being silly. Most of them couldn't find their own ass with a map."

"I'm not qualified," I said.

"But think of it. You'd have the power of a god at your disposal. Want to cure a disease? - it's done. Want to create a new animal? - it's done. Want to live forever? - it's done. Want to be richer than Creosus? - it's done. Want to end war? - it's done."

"What about the FDA?"

"One day, people will appreciate me whether they want to or not," said Natla.

I fiddled with my wing tips. "The power of a god, eh?" I said.

"You already have the wings of an angel," said Natla and kissed me.

Over her shoulder I saw a movement on one of the TV screens. The Harpies were beginning to stir in the dusk.

The Harpies were singing to their statue now that the lights had been turned off. At at least that's what it seemed like. They had two registers of voice - a low continuous basso note and an arabesque treble. It sounded like the Byzantine chant from L'Eglise de Rome. Natla turned up the woofers and the floor rumbled.

"You say they have language," I said. "What are they singing?"

"I can't translate exactly, but I think that they are asking the god to bring sleep to their enemies," said Natla. "That's what they always sing."

"That's where you got the name Morpheus from?"

"Exactly."

Natla zoomed the camera into the faces of the "congregation". Some were slavering and clapping their jaws like starving dogs within sight of food. Others were beating their wings on the floor and slapping themselves about the head. Some appeared to be weeping.

"Are that one there crying?" I asked, pointing to one of them.

"All animals cry," said Natla. "It lubricates the eyes." She switched the monitors off.

For a moment there was silence and then I began to be aware of strange sounds.

"What in God's name is that?" I said, unnerved.

There was drumming on the roof and the sound of nails screeching down window panes. There was an immense flapping of wings are if a flock of birds was flying overhead mixed with yells, and howls of rage.

"Come," said Natla, taking my hand. "There's a panoramic window upstairs."

We entered a shuttered room. Natla pressed a button and the lights dimmed to a dull red, like a photographic dark room. The shutter whispered up into a recess to reveal a heavily armoured window, criss-crossed with fine metal mesh.

"Sit," said Natla, handing me a drink.

I was halfway through taking a sip when a large shape flew towards me out of the darkness, smashing against the glass. I half leaped to my feet, spilling the drink over myself.

"Shhh!" said Natla.

One after another the Harpies were flinging themselves against the glass. Their faces were distorted, and they roared at us. They scrabbled at the windows and pounded at it with their fists, but fell away, unable to gain a purchase. I winced as another huge body crashed into the window right in front of me. I saw that Natla was watching me.

"What do you think?" she said, putting a hand on my knee. Her eyes were troubled. "You hate it, don't you?"

"I ... it disturbs me," I said.

"Is it any different to a zoo?"

"In zoos, the tigers don't fling themselves at the bars all days trying to eat the visitors," I said. "I'm no lover of tigers - I've shot enough - but even I wouldn't like to see them suffering in a cage."

Natla nodded, soberly. "So you don't think that people will like my Harpies?"

I took her hands and stroked her cheek. "I think they'll love them," I said. "But is that the point?"

Natla smiled to herself for a long moment. She seemed sad. "OK, darling," she said, eventually. "I'll set them free."

"How?"

"I'll cure their daylight paralysis. I'll seal off the islands and set up a system to bottle them in, but I'll leave them to live out their natural lives. They'll die out soon enough."

I was overcome with fondness. Maybe she really was trying her best in an alien world. I kissed her.

"Put up the shutters and let's go to bed," I said.

As I awoke I realised that we both must have slept very heavily. I smiled secretly and curled my toes. Worn out, I thought. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly midday.

Natla was lying in my arms, with her back to me. Her blonde hair was scattered over my face and lips, and her wing covered me like a warm electric blanket heated by blood. I nuzzled her neck and savoured the feeling of us, together, touching. My skin felt sensitive. I found myself wondering if this was how Samson had felt after Delilah had cut all his hair off. I felt emotionally open, happy, but weak. My habitual cynicism had melted away under Natla's kisses and it was an unnerving feeling. If a goose had said "boo" to me at that moment I'd have run away, crying.

Natla stirred and turned over in a tangle of wings. She was drooling. "Mmmph," she said.

"Good morning, darling," I whispered.

She didn't respond.

"Morning, cutie," I said, again.

"Morning," mumbled Natla, but she smiled the smile of someone who's first waking sensation is one of happiness.

We kissed and cuddled a bit.

Suddenly I sensed Natla's eyes opening wide. She screamed with horror and fell out of bed.

"What?" I said, scrabbling to my knees and taking a pistol from the bedside take. "What is it?"

Natla was pointing, shaking. I looked, and almost let off a round of bullets before I could stop myself. The small armoured window to the bedroom had been broken in. Jammed into the opening was a vicious looking Harpy, claws reaching into the room. It had frozen in mid-entry.

"Thank God we decided to leave the light on," I said.

"It's not funny," said Natla. "How the fuck did that get in here?"

I reached out to her with one hand and tried the light switch with the other. The light was no longer working. I looked at the clock on the bedside table. It had stopped at sunrise.

"We were lucky," I said. "They just ran out of time."

Natla got to her feet and embraced me like a small child seeking solace.

"They tried to get me," she said.

"Don't worry, babes," I said. "Let's get dressed."

Downstairs, everything seemed quiet. I wasn't expecting any active Harpies, but I kept my weapon drawn. Natla's fingers were sparkling as if she was going to let fly with a fireball at any second. Her wings twitched, poised for flight.

The front door looked as if it had nearly been battered in.

"I don't understand," said Natla. "How could they have done so much damage in one night?"

"When are we supposed to be leaving?"

"I would be expecting a call from the helicoptor pad some time this afternoon."

"Let's grab some food," I said, "and go down there and meet them. It's a nice sunny day."

I pulled open the door. A team of Harpies were lined up outside, tools in hand. They were frozen, looking up at Natla's bedroom window. They had been watching our intruder as the sun rose. For creatures that had been defeated by daylight, they looked remarkably cheerful.

The town looked as if it had been hit by a storm. We went around the house to Natla's fortified garage. The doors had been staved in and Natla's jeep had been half burned, half dismantled.

"Have we any other vehicles?" I said, trying the light switch. There was still no electricity.

"No," said Natla.

I put a hand on each of her shoulders and smiled.

"Look's like we're going for a walk," I said.

"I'm glad you're here."

"Why are you so freaked? You've been around your own creations before."

"They didn't try to kill me," said Natla. "I feel as if someone is walking over my grave. It's all a bit too Frankenstein for my liking."

"A nice cup of tea and then a brisk walk in the fresh air," I said. "Just what the doctor ordered."

It took about half an hour to hike to the giant entrance gate to the Mythology Experience. The gate had been demolished. Clustered around it were a group of frozen Harpies, trying to pull at the timbers.

"What's that noise?" said Natla, holding up her wrists as if about to unleash a fire ball. She scanned all around us at the dark trees.

"It's coming from here," I said, indicating the pile of wood. I got out my Maglite.

There was a scratching noise coming from near where the Harpies had been trying to lift a section of wood. I approached cautiously. I could see a crevice in the wreakage, and there seemed to movement within. I leaned forward, peering, my torch held at arms length. I was acutely away of the giant grey figures all around me. Maybe they'd been try to get at whatever was in there when the sun had hit them.

"Hello?" I said. "Anybody there?"

I decided that I was going to have to stick my head in the hole. I scanned around - the wreakage was a latticework, with many cavities where a person could be trapped. I heard a whimper and swung my torch round.

It was a Harpy. It snarled at me and its spittle hit my face. A large claw grabbed out at me and caught hold of my hair before I could jerk away. I yelped.

I shone the torch in its face. It howled and then the howl died. Its reddened eyes glazed to grey and its expression froze. The claw still pulled. I shone the torch on that but the pulling stopped. I couldn't prise the fingers apart. I pulled the knife from my ankle holder and cut away at my hair until I was free.

Natla was pulling away, almost hysterical. She pushed me to one side and unleashed a fire ball at the wooden pile.

There was an immediate inferno. I could see the frozen Harpies twitching and trying to writhe as the flames touched their skin. As the muscles in their necks cooked, their heads tiled back and their jaws were forced open. The flames must have warmed the air in their lungs because suddenly they were letting out an involuntary hissing and wailing noise.

"Why?" I asked.

From deep in the trees, in the darkness of the undergrowth came a echoing set of howls. Natla stood there, the flames from the funeral pyre playing over her face.

"I thought ..." she said. A darkness began to settle over the jungle.

As we approached the helicoptor pad there was a smell of burning.

"Oh my God," said Natla.

The helicoptor was transfixed with the burnt remains of wooden stakes. The Harpies had strung up some sort of contraption with vines and pulleys and levers. The helicoptor must have landed and sprung the trap.

The remains of the pilots were inside and outside. By my foot was a helmeted head. Its face had been bitten off.

"How could they have done this in broad daylight?" I said.

"So much planning," said Natla.

"Let's get down to the landing stage," I said. "There might be a boat. Natla?"

Natla was looking up at the sky, her hand shading her eyes.

"Natla? What is it?"

A look of horror had crept across her face. I turned to look up at the sun with her.

"The eclipse," whispered Natla.

A tiny sliver was etched out of the edge of the sun's disk. It was a day early.

4. FRUITLESS ...TTTAGGNNNATTACCCTTGAGACCACCTAA

Down at the sea's edge, the Harpies where waiting in hopeful rows, staring out to sea. There were Harpies of all sizes, including what were undoubtably children. They reminded me of the orderly queues wait to board the trains to Auschwitz.

On each side were the giant watchtowers fitted with arc lights and motion sensors that Natla had put up to hem them in. One of two of the lamps were broken, and there were shattered fragments of Harpy body strewn about on the ground, as if they'd frozen in mid air and then dropped like stones. It seemed that the sacrifice of those happy few had not been in vain, however, for the electricity was off all over the island, and the way to freedom was clear. Nobody on the mainland would be expecting an invasion in the middle of the day.

"Kill them all," said Natla.

"Why don't we just leave them to it?" I said.

"Can you imagine what would happen if they reached a town?"

"There'd be a couple of nights of excitement and them they'd all be hunted down," I said.

The Harpies were stirring in the gathering gloom. A Harpy child blinked sleep-rimmed eyes at me from the shelter of a parent's wing, and then yawned like a cat.

Natla flapped her hands as if trying to think of the right words to say something unpleasant. "This was supposed to improve my public image," she said.

"They say that there's no such thing as bad publicity," I said.

"Lara. Please." There were tears in her eyes.

"I'm off," I said. "If you've got any sense, you'll come with me."

I ran down to the landing stage without looking back. There was no boat. If I wanted to get off the island I'd either have to swim or fly.

As I launched myself into the air, I felt a blast of heat behind me. My own shadow was flickering in the flames and I could hear Harpy shrieks. I groaned and tears came to my eyes, but still I didn't look back.

I flapped out to sea, hoping for an updraft, my mind racing. I was filled with a mixture of emotions and I had the feeling that'd I missed something.

After five minutes I'd found an updraft that I could ride and gained height. The light was eiree and the surface of the sea was black. In the calm of being able to glide, my thoughts suddenly became clear.

Oh my God - I'd just left her. I should have knocked her out, or something, and forced her to come with me. I was too busy looking after my own skin. I'd just left her behind.

I groaned and folded my arms across my stomach, overcome with feelings of guilt. I began to fall, and I was tempted to allow myself to crash onto the surface of the sea. Natla had asked me to be her conscience. Just when she need me, I'd failed her. I was a complete bastard and there was no ducking it.

Finally I unfolded my wings and skimmed across the surface, face stung by salt spray and tears. I had to go back.

I wouldn't have been able to see the island behind me if it hadn't been for the flames and the flashes of fire. It looked like paradise surrounded by hell.

As I flapped laboriously against the off-shore breeze I was reminded of one of my youthful experiences in a sail boat. Leaving the shore with the wind behind me had been easy but then tacking back to safety in the rain had taken me hours, leaving me cold and frightened.

There was a smell drifting towards me that I recognised from the battlefield. Sometimes a small sensory reminder like a smell can plunge you right back there. I shuddered and hesitated, but then ploughed onwards.

Then I heard a sound. It was little more than a whisper at first be it got rapidly louder. It was the sound of leathery wings, flapping.

My heart leapt. Natla, I thought. She's followed me after all.

I could see a dark shape heading towards me. It seemed to be flying awkwardly, as if injured.

"Natla!" I called.

Then I saw a second shape, and then a third. Finally there was a crowd of them, attracted by the sound of my shout.

I did an Immelmann turn, swooping upwards and turning in mid-loop so that I was shooting away from them. There was a roar behind me, taken up by the rest of the Harpies.

I wondered if I could reason with them, but then I remembered that I wasn't in an episode of Star Trek. I pulled out my Uzi 9mm's and flew as fast as I could.

I was wondering if I'd have time to tape my Maglite to the end of one of my guns, when there when a blow on my right leg.

I screamed and tumbled, spiralling downwards and dropping one of my guns. There was a pain in my leg. I turned in midair in that classic HILO manoeuvre and fired blindly above me. There was a cry, and as I righted myself to glide a dark shape fell past me, claws clamped over its ruined face.

Another shape came in beside me, sliding sideways in the air, and crashing into me like a rugby player. I felt claws in my shoulder and twisted my Uzi around and fired a short burst. The claws were gone, but my shoulder was cut up.

I was winded and hardly able to flap my wings, but there was warm air rising from below me, so I managed to maintain my altitude. I was bleeding and exhausted, and I could see the flock of Harpies circling around me like the holding pattern above Heathrow.

It had turned into a game of chicken, with the Harpies snarling and growling at each other to get at me, and me whipping the Uzi from side to side, trying to save my bullets for the next close encounter.

Suddenly two of them flew at me from two sides. They were better fliers than me and I didn't have time to reach. I was crushed between them and I screamed, imagining that I could hear bones breaking. I felt arms around me and a bloody breath in my face. Another pain stabbed at me, and for a moment I couldn't locate it. Then I realise that something had taken a bite at my wing.

I sprayed around me with the Uzi, which was swiftly swotted out of my grasp. It was no use - I couldn't fight them. I folded my wings into me and dropped like a stone, straight for the sea.

The body learns certain things, and I have dived from some very high places before in my life. I found myself straightening my arms and my fingers, tucking my head between the crooks of my elbows, pointing my toes upwards. I was in a perfect dive and falling like a stone, but I couldn't breathe.

Birds do it, I thought. Kingfishers. Sea hawks.

I slammed into the water and went deep. For a second I thought I was going to lose it - the spiral of blackness was rushing in from the periphery of my vision and my limbs were tingling. I was still sinking, lungs bursting, when my body had another idea.

I found that I had unfurled the tips of my wings and that my vertical descent was gradually being converted into a swoop through the water. In the next moment I was gliding along horizontally and then I was climbing rapidly towards the black surface. Without the wings I might have drowned. I had no idea which was "up" in the blackness, but the wings knew.

As I broke surface I let out a cry - I couldn't help myself - and then, despite my painful ribs, drew in great lungfuls of air.

Immediately, the flock of Harpies began to mob me. The sea was whipped up into a frenzy of spray and waves as great shapes swooped down out of the sky, shreiking. A clawed talon ripped at my head, almost scalping my, and pushing me under the water. I flailed wildly with my fists, but made contact with nothing. Then I felt a tremendous pain in my right wing, and I was being pulled into the air. A Harpy had fixed its talons in me and was trying to lift me clear of the water, leathery wings thrashing, teeth bared. I was raked at from both sides by its companions, feet thrashing impotently at the surface of the sea.

Then my wing bones snapped and I fell back into the water. The wing would no longer fold, and I was splayed helplessly on the surface, as helpless as a bluebottle in a cup of tea.

This is it, I thought, wearily. I'd always known that I'd die in some unbelievably surreal fashion, but I'd never imagined this. I curled my arms over my head and waited for the final blows.

Then there was a thrumbing of a propeller in the water and bright light shone all round me.

A Harpy crashed into the water in front of my face. Its mouth froze open, and its flailing arms turned grey. There was a look of hatred and fear in its eyes as they hardened. The sea water gurgled into its throat and then it sank like a stone.

I felt a boat hook grasping my clothing, and heard the shouts of human voices, and then I fainted.

"Apparently ..." I started coughing.

"Water?" said Dr. Morfitt.

"Thanks. Apparently they managed to get us to sleep for a whole day. Natla must have been being psychic when she called that deity of theirs Morpheus."

"You need to rest. You've been through major surgery."

Dr. Morfitt had had to remove my wings. Natla had left instructions that I could choose to have them removed at any time, but it had become a medical necessity before I could make the decision.

"I can't believe that they went to all of that trouble just to escape from the island," I said, wiping the spilt water from my lips with a trembling hand.

"What do you mean?" said Dr. Morfitt, gently taking the glass from my fingers.

"They were out to get her. Natla."

"We didn't make them that intelligent," he said. "It was pure opportunism."

"But they put us to sleep."

"You'd been drinking. Indulging a new romance." Dr. Morfitt cleared his throat nervously. "Maybe you were just tired out."

I looked at him, and then shook my head. I was too tired to argue.

"Have the search parties found anything yet?

Dr. Morfitt winced. "So far they have found nothing alive on the island. Human or otherwise. It's a scorched wilderness."

"They'd have found her body."

"I've seen the videos that the landing crew took," said Dr. Morfitt. "There were more remains at the heart of Nagasaki."

I lay back to rest, closing my eyes. My whole body trembled.

It was a week later, and I was strong enough to sit up in bed. I'd eaten some food, and I could hold a book if I concentrated.

"Are you sure that you want to try and wade through this?" said Dr. Morfitt. He had a trolley with a personal computer and a pile of Biochemistry text books on it.

"I want to know exactly what was done to me," I said, firmly. "Natla thought I had a right to know."

Not the exact truth, but I was bored and I was trying to hold onto her in some way by examining her work. Her unsung genius. At least Oppenheimer had got the credit for the bomb.

I wouldn't have stood a chance, except that Natla had put together a presentation. There were PowerPoint slides. I imagined that her audience had been the scientists that worked for her.

I skipped the bit about the viral delivery system that had infected me. I know all about that. I wanted to know how she'd made a human grow wings.

I remembered at school how amazed that I'd been when I discovered how similar the embryos of different species are. If you put a chicken embryo next to a human embryo next to a turtle embryo they look practically identical. The only thing that differentiates them is their development. As they grow each cell has awakened with it the information that tells it what it should be. Lung cells grow next to lung cells. Eye cells next to eye cells. Wing cells next to wing cells. And so on. When the limb or organ is grown, the cells stop. In some animals, limbs can be regrown. Not in humans, not until Natla came along. She'd taken it a step further. Not just able to regrow lost limbs, she'd fathomed how to grow completely alien limbs.

I found a picture of a teratoma growth from a medical textbook. In this form of cancer, the development signals grow jumbled. There was a thing taken from a woman's womb, with one eye, a tooth, some hair, a finger. A monster. Only a master geneticist could sort play the developmental signals correctly. Natla was that master.

There was a list of genes that she'd activated or introduced, some of them not human, to start the growth. Each signal was finely tuned and localised to give the right skeletal and muscular structure, guided along its pathway by microinjections of hormones and other substances.

Gene names are not inherently interesting to look at, and there were hundreds. I sighed and let my head fall back on the pillow. I would never understand.

One of the names caught my eye - "fruitless". What a peculiar name, I thought. What did it mean? How could a gene be fruitless, and if it was, what was the point of it?

I typed "Fruitless" into a Biochemical search engine on the Net, not really hoping for enlightenment, but not prepared to give up. I was lead to a page called the "Interactive Fly".

"Male courtship behaviour is regulated by the fruitless gene," it said. "Drosophila courtship is an interaction wherein males hound females until copulation takes place."

I sat up, and began to read more closely.

"Sexual orientation, as well as courtship behaviour in Drosophila, is regulated by fruitless, the first gene in the sex-determination hierarchy functioning specifically in the central nervous system (CNS)," the entry continued. "The fruitless mutants show aberrant mating behaviour. Many mutant alleles result in male flies that court indiscriminately, which form male-male courtship chains in which each male is simultaneously both courting and being courted ..."

There was nothing about wings.

In another week, I was ready to leave. Guy the chauffeur was loading my things into the back of the car, when there was an excited shouting from around the back of the ranch.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"I don't know, Ms. Croft, but I can go and ask ..."

He stopped speaking and we both started listening intently. At first I wasn't sure, but then I could hear it.

"My Lord," said Guy. "Surely not?"

In the distance there was the distinct sound of flapping wings. A round of applause and some cheering was coming from the house. I grabbed up my shotgun and ran around the building.

Flying in from the setting sun was Natla. She'd obviously been resting up somewhere, for she was looking unscathed. She was smiling, and as fresh as a daisy. She alighted gently into a cloud of dust and Dr. Morfitt ran forward to shake her hand.

"It's so good to see you, Madam," he was saying. "We thought we'd lost you."

"Thank you, Morfitt," Natla was saying graciously. "It was a bit hairy there for a while, but I had some clearing up to do ..." Her voice tailed off as she caught sight of me.

"Good evening," I said.

"Lara!" she said, taking a few steps forward. "My God. I mean -Thank God. That you're all right."

"I'm just wonderful."

"I was so worried. Are you OK?"

"As I said, I'm wonderful. I have a couple of questions, and then I'll be off."

Natla took another step forward, holding out her hands. "You'll be off? I don't understand."

"Tell me about fruitless," I said, making sure she could see my shotgun.

Natla became pale. "What about it?"

"You changed me."

Natla laughed. "Well, of course. I made you fly. But ... your wings ..."

"There was nothing else we could do," said Dr.Morfitt.

"Fuck the flying," I said. "You abused me."

Natla opened her mouth and then shut it again. "Don't be silly," she said.

"You genetically altered me to make me fall in love with you."

"What are you talking about?" said Natla.

"You programmed me to fall in love with you."

Natla looked puzzled. She ran her fingers through her blonde hair. "Surely love comes from the heart," she said, softly. "It's more than just a collection of chemicals in the brain." Before I could react to this, she came forward and embraced me.

She kissed me on the cheek, and put her fingers on my neck. "I did it because I loved you," she whispered. I found that I still felt something at her touch, but it didn't excuse her.

"You asked me to judge you," I said. "Didn't you?"

Tears had sprung into Natla's eyes. Her face seemed to collapse into a mask of misery. "Yes," she said.

"Are you ready to be judged?" I asked, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. I remembered a small dog that my aunt had owned. It had turned on me when I teased it too roughly. My aunt had loved it, but she had it put down, nonetheless.

"I'll do whatever you say," Natla said, wiping a tear away. "I love you. Nothing else - none of this - matters. I'm totally in your hands." She took my hands in hers. "Do whatever you think best."

Gently I placed my hands around her throat. The staff stirred angrily around us, but Natla told them to stay back, cursing fiercely.

"I love you," she said, looking into my eyes.

"Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds," I said.

I tightened my fingers around her neck. She didn't struggle.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: England, my England

**Chapter Four: England, my England**

1. Lords and Ladies

I'd gone down a storm at the Young Farmer's Disco.

I'd snogged everybody. I'd danced on the table showing my knickers. I'd had a strictly illegal tin can shooting competition round the back of the Cricket Pavilion with the Chief Constable. I'd snorted coke in the kitchen with the young wives of the local GPs and JPs. I'd ridden a bull. I'd promised that I would think about marriage (and the amalgamation of the Croft Estate with another hundred acres) at least twenty times.

It was all an incredible laugh.

Now I was getting a lift home with Jack Kite, the convenor of the local branch of the National Farmer's Union.

"Or No Fucking Use, as we like to call it," said Jack, trying to focus on the country lane speeding past at seventy miles per hour.

"Ha ha ha ha ha," I said, sticking my hand down the front of his trousers.

By the time that we got to the gates of the Croft Mansion the BMW was almost out of control. We knocked one of the huge gates off its hinges and then, with a window screen crazed from the impact, drove into the fountain, knocking the stone fish from its pedestal.

I'd never liked that fish much. We tumbled out of the car, helpless with laughter and stood kissing in the shallow water.

"Are you all right, Miss?" said Winston, appearing the main doorway with a hurricane lamp held high.

"I'm fine, thanks, Winston," I said, holding onto Jack's torso for support. "No harm done. Just youthful high spirits and high jinks."

"Very good, Miss," said Winston. He coughed discretely.

"What is it?" I said, disengaging my tongue from Jack.

"You have a visitor," said Winston. He held up the lamp to illuminate a Mercedes-Benz parked exactly parallel with one of the formal flowerbeds.

"Good to see that you've still got the energy for youthful high jinks," said a voice I vaguely recognised.

"Who's that?" I said unsteadily, shielding my eyes from a non-existent midnight sun.

It was Roger, 7th Earl of Farringdon.

"Another cup of tea, milord?" said Winston.

"Actually, I think I'll join Ms. Croft. It's a shame to watch a lady drinking alone."

"I'm fine," I said, legs dangling over the edge of my armchair, bottle of Glenfiddick in my hand.

"Ice, milord?"

"Goodness me, no," said Roger. "Far too American. A splash of soda, perhaps."

We'd dispatched Jack Kite to be chauffeured home by Roger's driver in one of my cars.

"How's Lady Farringdon?" I asked. Roger had got fed up of waiting for me and had married something blue-blooded. It looked better in the City.

"Oh - Brenda's fine," said Roger. "Just got back from Antibes. Went there with her tennis coach."

"Are you two very much in love?"

Roger laughed. "Now don't be naughty, Lara," he said, fiddling with his ear lobe.

"And the boys?"

"They're settling in fine."

"How is the old Alma Mater?"

Roger sniffed. "They take girls in the sixth form now, apparently. Still got a good cricket eleven though."

"I see," I said, lighting my cigar. "So what drags you out here unannounced in the middle of the night?"

"Yes," said Roger. "Sorry about that. Sort of a whim."

"I hear that you have a mistress hereabouts. Did she chuck you out?"

"She doesn't seem to realise that a divorce is out of the question."

"Bad luck," I said. "Nothing worse than an uppity shag."

"Quite," said Roger. "May have to knock it on the head."

"What about the newspapers?"

Roger smiled. "A certain amount of roguishness is good for business," he said. "You know, Lara - that's one of the things I always liked about you."

"And what's that, Roger?"

"One can talk to you like a chap. No nonsense."

"Thank you," I said, blushing slightly. I'd had rather a lot to drink.

"So many gals. They only seem to live a shadow of a life. Not all there."

"It's the way that they're brought up," I said.

"Quite. Whereas you - completely off the rails."

"It's the way I like it."

Roger leaned forward and touched my hand. "I like it too. Still do. Never got over you ditching me."

I put my hand over his. "Sorry about that, old chap. I had the idea that you were deadly dull, if you must know the truth. I was very young. Silly."

Roger raised my fingers to his lips. "We're older now," he said. "Been around the block a few times."

"Quite," I said. "You've definitely improved."

"Don't you ever think that it's time to get married?"

I looked into the fireplace. "Some days," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"What you need is someone of independent means with the right blood," said Roger sardonically.

We looked at each other and started laughing. I felt a leap in my heart.

"Roger darling ..." I said, slightly unclearly. "I suppose a jolly good rogering is out of the question?"

We provisionally arranged the wedding for six months time, although of course a lot depended on how arsey Brenda was going to be about the divorce.

This might strike you as rather sudden, but Roger and I had been lovers when we were young and even then I didn't dislike him. It felt kind of satisfying to behave like the grown-up that my parents had wanted me to be, especially since this time they weren't breathing down my neck. It had a pleasant irony about it that kept me smiling.

I went to see old Monsignor Lehninger at my local church but he wasn't very impressed.

"I don't remarry married men," he said, stroking his thurifer. Or do I mean thurible?

"But he's getting divorced," I said.

"Not in the eyes of the church."

"What about a blessing after a registry office wedding, then?"

Lehninger snorted. "What do you think I am," he said. "Some sort of beatnik?"

I steepled my fingers. "What about if I gave you a large sum of money for the church? Administered by you."

Lehninger looked at me. "I'll have to seek God's guidance through prayer," he said.

Well it seemed reasonable to expect that if he was that old-fashioned a churchman he'd approve of Indulgences.

Next on the problem list was Mother and Father.

I didn't really want Father to "give me away", as that fine old Medieval custom is described - I'd rather it was Lord Falsingham - but I had to give him the chance to refuse.

"Father!" I yelled into the phone. He was on a antiquated landline from Kenya.

"Lara," his voice crackled back at me.

"How are you?"

"Covered with insect bites," he said. It was the first time that we had spoken for five years. "What do you want? The local exchange is playing up."

"I'm getting married."

"Who to?" said Father. He was obviously saving his congratulations.

"Roger Farringdon."

"Good Lord! Well done."

"Are you coming?" I shouted.

"Is your mother?" said Father's voice.

"Yes - probably."

"Is she bringing one of her boyfriends?"

"How should I know?" I protested. "Does it matter?"

"I'll telegram you. The line's ..." said Father, before he was cut off. Why he couldn't use a mobile phone like a normal person I'd never understand. Maybe he enjoyed being isolated from the modern world.

Next - Mother. I rang her in Paris where she was living the life of a Wallace Simpson.

"Bonjour!" came her voice down the phone.

"Hello, Mother."

"Who's this?" she said.

"The Dalai Lama. Who do you think?"

"Lara! Darling! This is a ... surprise."

"Isn't it?" I said, evenly.

"We having spoken for ..." I could almost hear her scratching at her bottle blonde hair.

"Ages," I said. "I've got some news."

"You're not pregnant?"

"I'm getting married."

There was a moment's silence from the other end.

"Are you sure that's wise?" said Mother, eventually.

"To Roger Farringdon."

"Oh my God," said Mother. She put her hand over the receiver but I could hear her calling for an absinthe.

"I love him," I said, unconvincingly.

"That's nice," said Mother. "Has he lost all of his money or something? I thought he was already married."

"I want you to come to the wedding," I said. I'd always found it prudent to ignore at least half of what my mother said.

"Of course, darling. Just send me the details and I'll be there."

"Thank you, Mother. I'd like it to be done properly."

"Can I bring my friend?" she asked.

"Only if you want to upset Father."

"That's settled then," said Mother, cheerfully.

Naturally I had to go and see my old friend and mentor Lord Falsingham. I hadn't been to visit him since the Madunai Island incident. I decided that it was time to face my fear and put the past behind me.

"Lara!" said Falsingham, coming forward to embrace me closely.

"Falsingham," I said, kissing him on the cheek. "You look well."

He was dressed, as ever, in one of his dark suits and he seemed sprightly. I hope that I'm as lively when I'm his age.

"Come and look at my new acquisition," he said, and led me down the steps to his dungeon.

I looked around the room with its racks and pincers, braziers and chains.

"Is that a new drinks cabinet?" I said.

"It is," said Falsingham, " but have a look at this." He pulled a cloth from a large man-shaped object.

"It's a mummy case," I said.

"Not any old mummy case," said Falsingham. He opened up the front to reveal an interior filled with vicious looking spikes. "It's a genuine Iron Maiden. I have a certificate to show that people were actually killed in it."

I must have looked pale, because he was suddenly very solicitous. He offered me a chair and a tot of brandy. I had to tell him about the time I'd been wrapped up for dead and shut in a very similar mummy case by the Djinn of Abdulaziz Al-Dorada.

"What a tale," he said, eventually. "Sounds as if the whole country was in danger."

"Luckily that sort of thing doesn't happen very often," I said. "Normally it's only abroad where it doesn't matter too much."

"Exactly," said Falsingham. "The world was foolish to give up on the British Empire." He rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful.

"I have some news," I said, hoping to chance the subject.

Naturally he was delighted.

As I was leaving I could see that same thoughtful expression in his eyes.

"Is everything all right, Falsingham?" I said.

"Of course," he said, producing a relaxed smile. "Your husband-to-be is a very lucky man."

I hugged him. "I'm sorry that it wasn't you," I whispered.

"Go and be happy," he said. "You've earned it."

Black's Devonshire Directory of 1850 describes Farringdon as follows;

FARINGDON, or FARRINGDON, a small scattered village, 6 miles N. by NW. of Exton, has in its parish 1977A. 3R. 9P. of land, and 381 inhabitants, of whom 71 are in Clist Sackville, or Sackville tything, which is mostly in Sowton parish ... The manors of Faringdon and Bishop's Clist, now belong to John Gawain, Esq., of Duck's Court. Faringdon House or Castle, presently occupied by the 5th Earl, is a large stone building with a handsome front and moat, standing in a small park. There is a model farm consisting of 96A. 7R. 9P. The parish is bordered on the east by the Badbury hills, which separate it from the Otter valley. The Rev. Wm. Rous Ellicombe, General Ellicombe, J. Merlen, Esq., and several smaller owners have freehold estates here . . . . . The Church has a tower and one bell, and the living is a rectory, valued in K.B. at 9l.8s.1 1/2d., and in 1831 at 262 guineas. The Bishop of Exeter is patron, and the Rev. C.H. Collyns, D.D., is the incumbent, and has a handsome residence and about 60 acres of glebe ... There was a chapel near Duck's Court, dedicated to St. Grail, founded by Bishop Heahmund, and to which Bishop Stapledon annexed a hospital for twelve poor infirm men ...

And so on.

I don't usually get the Bentley out. Ever since Hitler and Henry Ford made the unfortunate decision to make the motorcar available to everyone, there had been no pleasure in driving through England. I was looking forward to the day when the oil runs out and only people like myself could afford to drive.

However. I knew that Roger had a fine selection of motorbikes and now that I was on the verge of being a respectable materfamilias, I decided that the Bentley set the right tone. There was the added advantage that it saved cramming Winston into a sidecar or leaving him at the mercy of the West Country train companies.

I'd seen Farringdon House (or Castle) many times before. I'd ridden to hounds there and I'd had an interesting experience in a haystack with one of the stable hands. The juxtaposition of the two events had made it rather difficult for me to sit on a horse with perfect equanimity, but I'd enjoyed myself anyway. Despite that, it was strange to view it from the point of view of a future chatelaine instead from that of a teenager.

"Darling!" said Roger, coming forward to meet me, flanked by a posse of grinning domestics. As he led me into the main hall there was an electronic crackling and then a blast of the "Arrival of the Queen of Sheba" from a sound system. The domestics around us and on the staircase started to clap and cackle.

I took a bow, blushing.

"The arrival of the Queen of Farringdon," said Roger, loudly.

My hormones must have been playing up, because instead of cringing I found myself smiling prettily at him. Love must blunt the critical faculties in order to prevent the human race from dying out. I just hoped that Roger didn't insist on playing "Zadoc the Priest" the next time I made him come.

In the privacy of the library two boys in public school uniform were standing looking at me with a sceptical expression. They were probably about fifteenish.

"I want you to meet my sons, Kevin and Peter," said Roger. "Come and say hello to Lara, chaps."

Kevin held out his hand to be shaken. "So you're the tart who's driven Mother out of the house," he said conversationally.

Roger turned beetroot.

I held up a mollifying hand. "That's quite all right," I said.

Kevin smiled. "Pleased to meet you."

Peter blushed as I took his hand. "I like you," he said. "You've got nice jugs."

"Thank you," I said.

Roger looked steely. "Lord knows where you two learned to talk like that," he said.

"Would you rather that we were sullen with your new mistress Father?" said Kevin.

"She's my fiancee, you ... bounder," said Roger.

"Not unless bigamy has been legalised," said Kevin, in a pleasant voice. "I just hope that she's not in the will."

"I'm more than independently wealthy," I said.

I wondered if I'd been as appallingly rude to my parents at his age and realised that I had been. I smiled to myself. Our sort is trained to be high-handed. It's a requirement for ruling the country, despite what liberals might say. Kevin would go far.

The Farringdon Hunt consisted of forty and a half pairs of hounds and was established in 1836 by Devonshire cavalrymen after a boundary dispute with a neighbouring hunt country. It was far from reputable for the first few years of its existence, serving as a sort of gentleman's club featuring prostitutes and heavy drinking, but the intrusion of the railways and female riders to hounds had forced it to become a respectable part of the community. The end had come when a curate attached to the Bishop of Bath and Wells had been caught out in a three-in-a-bed sex scandal; the poor lad had been chastised privately and forced to become a bishop in the end. Personally I thought the whores and liquor sounded more fun, but you can't argue with tradition, even if it is only 150 years old.

The latest scandal had erupted when the townies had "discovered" the age old custom of looking after the local fox population so that there were always enough to hunt. For years parts of the county had been left uncleared to give the foxes somewhere to live in peace between hunts, and the earth stoppers had always left out a few chicken carcases in the lean times to keep the foxes healthy. Unfortunately some buffoon in the Lords had claimed that part of the point of the Hunt was to control fox numbers, foxes being a "pest". Talk about shooting oneself in the foot. Guardian readers must have creamed in their tie-dyed jeans over that one.

"Really darling," Roger was saying. "I'm not sure what Mr. Herne would say about the scarlet."

"I'll ask him," I said, coyly. "Red suits me."

"Anything suits you, darling, but scarlet is the prerogative of the Huntsman and the MFH."

"Oh bugger prerogative, Roger," I said, smiling. "What ever happened to droit de seigneur?"

"I don't think you mean that," said Roger, "much as I would enjoy deflowering every virgin bride in the demesne."

"What about if I was Huntsman?"

"You're not a man."

"That's a bit sexist."

"Darling," said Roger. "The point isn't whether I have the right to change whatever I like in my own Hunt. You'll be tolerating one day cricket next."

So I was stuck with a black jacket. I had, however, decided to keep up with the hounds.

The field met at 11.00 outside the house. I was on large black stallion called, with a blistering disregard for the proprieties, Sambo. I've nothing against shooting foreigners and stealing their cultural heritage, but name calling is a bit off. Sambo was a big bastard, too big for a lady, but fortunately they weren't forcing me to ride sidesaddle in a long skirt. He tried to bite me on the leg, so I twatted him with my crop.

"Stop behaving like a Shetland pony," I said to him. "Think of your pedigree."

Sambo snorted and stamped, but he took my point.

"Sherry, Madam?" asked one of the girls, holding up a tray.

"I'm not sure I ought to," I said to her with a smile. "I necked about a gallon of scotch after breakfast."

She giggled.

Pulling Sambo around I spotted Winston in the distance, installed in the passenger seat of Lord Falsingham's Hispanola-Sousa; he was wearing a deerstalker hat. He was going to be with the followers in their cars. He raised a hip-flask in deadpan salute. I waved - semi-retirement suited him, and he'd settled into Farringdon House well. Even his wind had calmed down under the influence of decent cooking.

Roger trotted over.

"You look smashing," he said, leaning sideways in his saddle to kiss my cheek. There was an "aah" from the spectators.

"And your arse looks nice in those jodhpurs my Lord," I said, sotto voce.

Roger hurrumphed and blushed slightly. "Good God, girl," he said. "If you're like this now what will you be like after the kill?"

"Absolutely gagging," I said.

"Mr. Herne," called Roger, giving my hand a squeeze. "Are we ready to go?"

"We'll head over and draw the covert, m'Lud," said Mr. Herne, touching his horn to his hat. "Whippers-in set off please," he called.

"No chopping the fox if we can help it this time," said Roger to Mr. Lyme, the MFH.

"Yes, my Lord," said Mr. Lyme with a cheery grin.

A little later, the field, myself among them, waiting to one side of the wood for the fox to break cover. I could hear the hounds and they were nearer. There's this theory that the first person to spot the fox breaking cover cries "Tally-Ho!" I think that the Victorians must have invented that one, because the noise that such a person usually makes is just a bloodthirsty wordless scream.

The fox broke and dashed away along a drainage ditch. The hounds were assembled, and given the scent. We were off.

Ninety hounds is a lot of hounds and not easy to lose. I was charging up the side of the hill when I came to a high hedge.

"Come on, Sambo," I said, leaning over the horse's ear. "Let's show them what a real horse can do."

Sambo was a bit of a "head the ball" type of horse and he didn't hesitate, practically standing vertically on his hind legs before leaping upwards. I heard a muffled cheer from somewhere as we sped up the hill after the pack.

Foxes are supposed to be cunning, but I think that maybe that's another Victorian thing to make the hunting of them seem somewhat nobler. Actually a panic-stricken fox can be remarkably stupid. This particularly one could have doubled back into the wood or carried on running from hedgerow to hedgerow, but instead it shot over the edge of the hill onto a flat open area at the top.

"This isn't going to last long," I thought. "Let's hope there's another fox."

The upland looked more like the South Downs than anywhere else, with scars of chalk and what looked like an old straight track traversing from right to left. I saw the fox shooting across the short grass, completely exposed, with the leaders of the hounds not far behind. It didnï¿½t swerve or waver, but kept as straight as a missile into the middle of the flat nothingness.

I was un-nerved. Maybe the fox had gone mad with terror and with just running pell-mell. I was ahead of the other riders by a stretch, and the MFH and the rest were slowly catching up with me. However, they were still too far back.

"Come on, boy," I said to Sambo, whacking his flanks with my boots, "or there'll be nothing left by the time we get there."

One minute there was the fox, the hounds and I, and then the chase suddenly stopped. The hounds were running backwards and forwards, baying in a confused melee. As I rode up it appeared that the fox had gone to ground.

"Mr. Herne," I said to the Huntsman as he rode up. "I thought you chaps would have stopped up all the earths last night."

"I thought we did," said Mr. Herne, pushing back his riding hat and scratching his brow.

"Lara!" said Roger, galloping up. "Fine bit of riding. Excellent."

"Thank you, darling," I said.

"It's gone down in here," said Mr. Lyme, shouldering his horse through the pack and pointing with his crop. "Shall I call up Mr. Russell and his terriers?" There was a sort of crack in the chalk leading to a subterranean bolthole. It didn't look as if a fox had dug it.

"I leave it to you and Mr. Herne," said Roger. "It'll give the followers a chance to catch up. Come on, darling. Let's wander off."

We made our way across the flat land, away from the noisy pack.

"Are there flint mines around here?" I asked. "Like Grime's Graves?"

"I've no idea darling," said Roger. "More your line of country. There are caves."

"Any strange names?"

Roger smiled. "Well. There's a quoit called Arthur's Seat. Big lump of stone dragged from God knows where and dumped not far from here. It's been dug around but there was nothing there."

"I have a feeling that we may not see that particularly fox again," I said.

At that moment our chat was interrupted by the sound of a pistol shot. Sambo reared up.

"What?" said Roger, steadying his horse.

There was the sound of a hunting horn being blown and some shouts. We cantered back towards the pack.

Mr. Lyme was at the centre of the pack, laying about with his crop. His horse was bucking and whinnying. As we approached a hound leapt up and knocked Mr. Lyme backwards.

Mr. Herne and another member of the hunt were at the edge of the pack, also having trouble. Mr. Herne, who has fired the shot, fired again. I could see the hounds biting at the neck and fetlocks of Mr. Herne's horse. The horse stumbled onto its knees and Mr. Herne was thrown. He was surrounded by dogs, and laid about him, yelling. They brought him down.

"Christ," said Roger.

I was distracted by a figure standing to one side. He was wearing a cloak and his hands were clasped in front of his shadowy face. He looked like a black man. Hunt sabs, I thought.

I looked at the pack and the pack looked at me.

"I wish I'd brought my Uzis," I said, in the second before they started after us.

I'm afraid I'm rather selfish when it comes to my own life.

"Follow me," I yelled to Roger. I spurred Sambo back down the hill to where I knew the rest of the riders would be. With more targets, the hounds might split up. Besides, if I could find Winston and his car, I'd have access to artillery.

"Lara!" said Roger, grabbing Sambo's harness. "Can't do that. Too many people."

"That's the idea."

"Not very sporting," said Roger.

"What's sport got to do with it?"

"Trust me," said Roger, and started riding around the side of the hill.

I was tempted to let him go. I was certain that the pack would follow him. Then I remembered that I was supposed to love him. It seemed inelegant to leave my lover to his fate alone. I rode after him, the hounds on our heels.

Roger was riding towards a field bounded by an electric fence. I felt a nip at my left ankle. A hound had leapt up. I kicked it in the face.

Roger cleared the fence, closely followed by me. There was a cracking noise and some yelping as a few of the hounds got a jolt. It didn't really slow them down much.

The field was full of cows. I could see Roger's plan as we bore down on the herd. The cows took one look at the dogs and us and started to stampede.

Sambo didn't much like cows. He reared and complained, and the cows began to bellow as they thundered to the far side of the pasture.

A hound leapt up and latched its teeth into my shoulder. The weight pulled me sideways, and I desperately dug my feet into the stirrups, lashing out with my riding crop. The jacket was padded, but the teeth had got through into my skin with supercanine strength.

Sambo was circling, confused, with the hounds raking at his flanks. He reared up, and smashed two dogs with his hooves. He bit the neck of another, breaking it.

"Lara!" Roger was there. He pulled the dogs away, prizing open jaws and twisting heads.

He grabbed Sambo's reins and began to ride. Sambo bucked, but he bucked in roughly the right direction, the whites of his eyes showing and his mouth flecked with foam and blood.

The cows had broken down the fence and stumbled into a stream on the other side. Some were impaled with pieces of wood, and others had been trampled by their fellows. Any ordinary pack of dogs would have gone wild at the smell of blood and set to with vulpine ravenousness, but our pack was no to be distracted. They were after us.

I was dazed and not really in control of Sambo as we stumbled across the stream, but I could tell that something odd was going on.

Roger's horse put a leg into a rabbit hole and fell, leg broken. I took control of Sambo and scooped Roger up behind me just as the first hound flew at his face. The pack ignored the fallen horse.

"I'll steer," I shouted, "and you keep the buggers away from us."

"Right-o," said Roger, in a shaken voice.

I could see the B road not far away, and - to my satisfaction - the Hispanola-Sousa containing Lord Falsingham and Winston. Falshingham was driving whilst, in the back seat, Winston was cracking open a shotgun.

"Throw them our coats," I said, hanging on with my thighs with the reins in my teeth. The jacket was stiff and hard to remove.

Roger bundled them up and flung them to one side. The pack ignored the bait.

"They forget scent when they've got line of sight," said Roger.

"No they don't," I retorted. "There's something queer happening."

The lead hound leapt onto Sambo's haunches like a tiger. If it had had cat claws, it would have dug them in. Instead it hung from Roger's neck by its jaws, like a family dog bouncing up and down from a springy tree branch. Roger gurgled and began to tip backwards, trying to get his fingers around the animal's teeth. I poked it in the eye with my thumb, but it didn't let go.

There was a gunshot, and a hound wheeled and fell back. It's a good job that I dislike dogs. I've seen enough of them shot to rival the death rate at Battersea Dog's Home. Every one of my adventures leaves a pile of canine corpses about the place.

Then there was a burst of Uzi fire and I saw how near we were to the car. Some more hounds were cut down, but the rest advanced as blithely as English gentlemen in No Man's Land.

I took a risk and pulled Roger and myself off the horse. Sambo rode off, but no dog followed him. I was relieved that he, at least, was safe.

There was a rock. I removed the grinning hound from Roger's neck. I'll spare you the details. Roger found a fence post. The combination of modern and improved weapons finished off the rest of the pack.

"Are you all right, Miss?" called Winston, pulling open a five bar fence.

I looked down at my clothes. I was wearing red after all.

Red didn't seem to have helped Mr. Herne or Mr. Lyme. They'd been torn to pieces. It was a pity that they didn't have the nervous system of the fox because then, presumably, they'd have felt much less.

I'd been tending Roger but the GP had thrown me out. Roger was in shock and needed rest, apparently. I felt for him. The Farringdon Hunt had ceased to be in one day, a little fragment of the order of things swept away by an unfortunate accident.

"But are we sure it was an accident?" said Falsingham, lifting his glass from Winston's salver. "Thanks, old chap."

"Thank you Winston," I said. "Have a tot yourself."

"I couldn't, Miss," said Winston, fiddling with the decanter stopper.

"You're on holiday, man," said Falsingham, patting a leather chair. "It was your sharp shooting that undoubtably saved Lord Farringdon."

"For which I shall always be grateful," I said, standing and placing a kiss on Winston's grizzled cheek. "As for so many other things."

Winston coughed in embarrassment. "Maybe just a small one, " he said, fetching a whiskey glass from the sideboard.

"So," I said. "Not an accident?"

"Those dogs were being ... guided," said Falsingham. "I suspect something occult."

I frowned. "I can understand something wanting to kill me," I said, "but why Roger?" I told them about the figure that I'd seen watching up just before the attack.

"Let's get the Land Rover," said Falsingham. "I have some of my books and so on with me."

"I have an Ordinance Survey map and a compass, "said Winston. "And Arthur Mee's guidebook to Devonshire."

"Capital," said Falsingham. "You shall be Mansel to my Chandos. Lara?"

"I'll unpack the Desert Eagle," I said. "If anything solid turns up, I'll make some holes in it."

We still had quite lot of daylight left by the time that we returned to the hill. There was some police tape set up, and blood on the grass.

Falsingham got two bronze divining rods out of his leather bag, and a spirit lamp. He handed some chalk to Winston, they started to pore over the Ordinance Survey map.

I went to examine the hole where the fox had gone to ground. I touched the earth at the entrance, and shone my Maglight down into the crack in the chalk. The hole had formed extremely recently. The earth was still damp and the exposed grass roots had only just begun to shrivel.

The crack seemed to be deep. I dropped a pebble into it and did not hear it hit the bottom. If the fox had run in, it would have fallen.

I walked back to where Falsingham was pacing, arms out stretched. Every now and then his wrists twisted and the divining rods swung inwards. Winston made a chalk mark.

"We need an aerial photograph," I said.

"Patience, old girl," said Falsingham. "Why don't you sit down and let us get on? Smoke one of those filthy cigars of yours."

So I did, armed with Winston's guidebook.

Apparently Arthur's Seat was a "quoit". A "quoit" was defined as either a "dolmen" or the flat stone of a "dolmen". A "dolmen" was a megalithic tomb. In other words, Stone Age. Therefore it didn't seem very likely that Arthur's Seat was anything to do with Arthur. I yawned. So many things in the UK are named after Arthur. Arthur's Hill. Arthur's Stones. Arthur's Pond. Arthur's Tree. Arthur's Underpants. The tourist trade has been around every since Americans were invented. I dozed off. It had been a long day.

I awoke to Falsingham tickling my calf with a piece of straw.

"Wake up sleepy head," he said.

"Unhm," I said, wiping the drool from my chops.

"You look gorgeous when you're asleep," he said, lightly.

"That's because I dream of you," I replied.

He laughed and bowed faintly.

"So what have you found?" I said, accepting a plastic cup full of stout tea from Winston's thermos.

"There's an underground chamber," said Falsingham, "and until a few hours ago it was probably shielded by magic."

"Whooo!" I said, waggling my fingers and pulling a ghost face.

"Come and see."

They marked out quite a large area, with the chalk crack at one end. Within the boundary they'd outlined several rectangles about the size of building skips.

"And these are?" I asked, pointing at the rectangles.

"Not sure," said Falsingham. "Rocks? Foundations? Plague pits?"

"Victorian rubbish dumps?" I suggested.

I'd just noticed how the chalk crack had widened when there was an earth tremor, and a rectangular slab of rock appeared where the crack had been. There were steps leading down.

We stumbled backwards. There was the sound of hooves on rock and a squad of horsemen rode out from under the earth.

"Keep calm," said Falsingham, placing a hand on my shoulder. "No shooting."

They were dressed for the Dark Ages, but richly. One of them was carrying a banner with a large ChiRho symbol on it. He had draped the freshly skinned pelt of our fox over his helmet like a hood. I gaped at the banner. It was a labarum, a Christian battle flag. I gaped at the heavy cast iron stirrups and the short swords. The horsemen were armoured, whilst the horses wore decorated coats of heavy colourful material.

"Cataphractarii," I said to myself. I didn't really have the evidence but I knew that I was right.

"What?" said Falsingham, in a careful voice.

"Byzantine heavy cavalry," I said.

Of the last two riders emerging from the ground, I recognised one. It was the man who had watched the hunt. He was black, as I had first thought, perhaps a Syrian. With him was a figure of rank, obviously the squadron commander, judging from his cuirass and his slightly dandified clothing.

We stood perfectly still as these two trotted up to us.

"That man is some sort of adept," whispered Falsingham of the black watcher.

I decided to risk making a fool of myself. "Welcome to the estates of Lord Farringdon," I said in Greek. I actually called him "Count." "I am Lady Croft." I bowed.

"And I am Lord Falsingham," said Falsingham, taking my cue. "I see that in your retinue you have a man of power."

The two riders looked at each other.

The commander broke into a tight smile. "I am Marcus Harmatius Ursus," he said, "I am appointed Comes and Dux Bellorum for this province. This is my advisor, Magister Meruleus. We mean no harm to nobilitates like yourselves. We are here again to help with the battle against the pirates."

Falsingham sucked in air through his nostrils. "Greetings, Commander," he said. "We need to have words with you concerning the events earlier today."

The group of horsemen stirred uneasily around us. There were a few rueful glances. Meruleus remained stony faced.

"Wait a minute," I said, raising a hand.

"Domina?" said Marcus Harmatius Ursus.

"Which pirates?"

The tension broke and men were laughing.

"Which pirates?" said Marcus Harmatius Ursus, with a look of disbelief. "I mean the Saxons, of course, my Lady."

There was a pause.

"The Saxon raiders are lost in the mists of history," said Falsingham, eventually. "I fear that there may have been a misunderstanding."

Marcus Harmatius Ursus cast a sharp look at Meruleus. "Maybe so, my Lords," he said to us, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "However the spell that held us slumbering beneath Mons Badonicus was strong. We were only to return in the time of Britannia's greatest need."

"If I may," said Meruleus. He had a striking voice. It was quiet but it had strange overtones.

"Please," said Falsingham.

"You are ruled by a Saxon Queen called Elizabeth?"

"Er - the family has German roots, but the Queen's consort is Greek," I said.

"You are no longer in communion with God's one true Church since your holy monasteries were destroyed by a Saxon king?"

"Henry Tudor was not a Saxon," I said, looking to Falsingham for help. "Was he?"

"The term Saxon is antiquated and no longer applicable," said Falsingham, firmly.

"This is a heretic country nonetheless, ruled by a heretical perversion of Christianity promulgated by a Saxon called Martin Luther?" said Meruleus.

I sighed. There is no more boring guest than an ideologue and it was clear that these boys had Saxons on the brain.

"We shall talk of this later in the house of my betrothed, Lord Farringdon," I said. "You are all welcome guests."

That cheered them up. Then Falsingham asked them the question that I already worked out the answer to.

"You mention Mons Badonicus," he said. "Have you heard of a king or of a great war leader called Arthur?"

Marcus Harmatius Ursus laughed, as did his men. Even Meruleus smiled.

"It was a joke, a nickname given to me by a Irish cleric," he said, jovially. "My family name, Ursus, means 'the bear' in Latin. The Celtic word for 'bear' sounds very much like 'Artor'. I am the Arthur that you've heard of ..."

2. St. Grail

We took the posse to Farringdon Court and settled them into the cottages next to the stables. The horses and the men were starving.

Later Arthur - everybody called him Arthur, even to his face - and Meruleus - everybody called him a number of things, the most polite of which was Merlyn, but only behind his back - were apologetic about the hunt. Arthur, Meruleus, Roger, Falsingham and I, as well as a cavalryman named John Basiliscus were seated in the dining room.

"Meruleus thought that we were under attack when that fox dropped into our chamber," said Arthur. "We were only half awake, and we could hear the baying of hounds. Meruleus mistook your English language for Saxon."

"Those men were friends of mine," said Roger, who had also taken Greek. His eyes were angry.

"Meruleus," said Arthur. "Apologise."

"I apologise, your Eminence," said Meruleus with a deep bow. "I shall, of course, pay you for the loss of your servants and hunting hounds."

Roger looked at him with suspicion. "What country do you come from, anyway?" he asked.

Meruleus smiled. "I am from Antioch," he said.

"Whilst I was born in the Theme of Opsikion, in the town of Pergamum," said Arthur.

"Where's that?" said Roger in English.

"Turkey," I said.

"What rubbish," said Roger. "Everybody knows that King Arthur was a Brit, not a Turk."

"King Arthur was a legend," said Falsingham. "This chap is Duke Arthur."

"Then this chap is an impostor," said Roger. "It takes more than a bit of white skin to make a King of England."

Falsingham smiled, whilst I kept a straight face. I was tempted to suggest that we ask Arthur which football team he preferred, Galatasaray or Leeds United, but I realised that I would be the only person in the room who would understand the reference.

"Look, darling," I said, "it sounds as if the hunt thing was a dreadful accident. We're all sad about the hounds and Mr. Lyme and Mr. Herne, but there's nothing to be done."

"But I've got the Coroner's Office and the R.S.P.C.A. onto me, sweetie," said Roger.

Falsingham cleared his throat. "Farringdon - you're On The Level, aren't you?"

"True," said Roger.

"Well, there you are," said Falsingham, looking around for the whiskey. "Why don't we introduce our guests to that excellent Celtic beverage, the Water of Life?"

I winced, inwardly. I didn't have a particularly happy history with the Masons. However - it seemed that they'd decided to let me marry Roger despite everything, no doubt thanks to quiet words being spoken in various ears. I was obviously less of a nuisance when I was within the establishment than when I wasn't.

Over the next few days, we all got to know each other a little better. Arthur and Meruleus had ten followers with them, some of whom had recognisably Arthurian names - like Bediwere or Lucanus - and some of whom sounded like a Who's Who of the Roman sixth century - Julius Ambrosius, Julius Aegidius, Anicius Anthemius, Leo Tarasicodissimus, Anastasius Verinus and John Basiliscus.

Arthur was obviously used to recounting his personal history. His tone was a mixture of ruefulness, humour and pride.

"I was born between two lions," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "That is, I was born before the death of the Bishop of Rome, Leo and after the crowning of the Emperor Leo." Looking it up, I deduced that he'd been born in about 460 AD. "My real parents were unknown to me but I was adopted into the family of Julius Flavius Victor Allectus, a partician who bred horses. I thought of his son, Cnaeus, as my brother." I could see how the names 'Allectus' and 'Cnaeus' could have become bastardised, through the Chinese whispers of the balladeers, to 'Ector' and 'Kai'. "I joined the Imperial cavalry," continued Arthur, "but I became involved with chariot racing." He became attached to the court of emperor Leo I in Constantinople, and very soon was by religion, a Monophysite and by political allegiance, a Green. It was then that he was re-adopted into the family of the Harmatii.

"Unfortunately, my patron was an adherent of the Emperor Basiliscus," said Arthur, with a wince. This mini-Emperor reigned for 20 months, and in that time Arthur's sponsor, Harmatius himself, made a complete dick of himself by poncing around in front of the crowds at the Hippodrome dressed up like Achilles. Since Harmatius was the Emperor's nephew and a magister militum, this was a bit like the Prime Minister parading around at Wembley wearing a gold-plated Superman suit whilst chanting "I've got considerably more money than you lot." Eventually Basiliscus resigned as Emperor, and the new Emperor had Harmatius assassinated on the grounds that Harmatius was (a) mad and (b) a complete arsehole. Arthur high-tailed it out of Constantinople with a few of his mates and didn't stop running until he reached Gaul. Fortunately he had taken most of his family's famous war-horses with him.

There they had come across a bizarre community of Romano-British expats living in the Loire valley around the town of Soissons. This collection of refugees, who resembled modern tax-exiles, had decided that living in Britain was too dangerous for good taste. Then - like many British expats abroad - they'd all gone a bit strange in the head, and decided that it was their God-given right to bring civilisation to the French. The result was Aegidius, self-styled "King of the Romans" and his son Syragius. Arthur and his band were absorbed into this sixth century version of the Mafiosi and spent the next six years bringing a dubious version of Roman law to "Little Britain". Unfortunately in 486 AD the ungrateful locals - lead by another local bully called Clovis, "King of the Cambrai" - overthrew the lot of them, and Arthur and his men and his horses, being unable to head east, fled from Brittany across the Channel to good old Blighty.

"Sometimes," said Arthur, "you make the best of things. I could have admitted that I was a penniless refugee of dubious parentage, who had foolishly decided to back two regimes of dubious legitimacy. Instead my companions and I decided to represent ourselves as a rescue party sent from civilisation."

The remnants of the province of Britain were under attack. The Saxon pirates had taken over large tracts of land and had even burned one of the supposedly impregnable walled Roman cities near Pevensey. Communications with the continent were severed. Nobody was bothering to pay taxes any more and there was no standing Roman army. As in Brittany, there were local warlords - "The King of Northumbria", "The King of Wales".

"We were well armed with big horses," said Arthur. "We were obviously gentlemen, and we had come more or less straight from Constantinople." Thus they had ridden straight to Dumnonia in the West Country and hired themselves out to Marcus Naso Leontius, "King of Devonshire", who had given Arthur the optimistic old title of "Dux Bellorum" or War Leader.

The rest, as they say, was history. Eventually Arthur and his men had broken the back of the Saxon advance at Mount Badon in about 500 A.D., and ensured a place for themselves in English folklore forever. The Roman way of life limped along for a few decades longer than had seemed possible, and then internecine squabbling had allowed the Saxons back in to complete what they had started.

More interesting was the moment when Arthur said that his men needed to train. I perked up. If we'd been back at the Croft Mansion I could have given them the obstacle course to try out. Instead, we set up some stuff on one of the fallow fields at Farringdon Court.

I was inspired by the film "Spartacus". I had some melons stuck on sticks.

"May I try your sword?" I said to Arthur, trotting up to him on Sambo. "Or is it some sort of special sword? The stories talk about a sword called Excalibur."

"Oh that," said Arthur, cheerfully. "I did have a sword once, but Bediwere lost it in a pond."

"But it was called Excalibur?"

"It was an Arabic sword, cast made by an unusual technique that made it very strong and corrosion proof. When I bought it, the merchant in Syria described it as 'ex kalib', which means 'taken from a mould'. There was even a rumour that the sword was still embedded in the casting mould when I first got it, and that only I could remove it ..." Arthur laughed. "We lived in a time of rumours and legends. However ' please do borrow my latest sword. It's called 'Death to all Saxons'."

"How romantic," I said.

I spurred Sambo towards one of the melon posts, sword in my right hand. I gripped with my thighs and dug my feet into the stirrups as I approached, as Death to all Saxons was rather heavy. One swipe, and I sliced the melon neatly in two. I wheeled and did the same again with a second.

Arthur's men cheered. As I rode up to him, I wiped the melon juice carefully from the sword with the hem of my shirt.

"My Lord," I said, handing the sword to him hilt first, my face flushed.

"My Lady," said Arthur, taking the sword and kissing my knuckles. "It is a shame that you are betrothed."

"It's gallant of you to say so," I said.

Kevin and Peter came wondering up. They are already Arthur fans.

"Very Brunnhilde," said Kevin.

"Cool," said Peter, staring at my sweaty cleavage.

"I'd offer to esquire these boys of the Lord Farringdon, but they do not speak our language," said Arthur, ruffling Peter's hair. "They look as if they are a bit too used to soft living."

"Everything these days is done by machines and devices," I said. "Even war."

Arthur's smile faded a little. "So Meruleus tells me," he said. "He thinks that in order to survive in a land so full of magic that we shall need strong magic ourselves."

"Magic?" I asked.

"Your friend the Lord Falsingham can explain it more than I can," said Arthur. "He and Meruleus have hardly been apart these last few days."

"So," I said, sipping my tea, "what do you think of Meruleus?"

"Fascinating," said Falsingham. "Very dangerous."

"Yes," I said. "In what way?"

"Do you remember when you came to tell me about you and Roger? We talked about England being in danger?"

"Vaguely."

"I was uneasy. There have been signs. Small things. I won't bore you with them."

I sighed. "Cigar?" I said, offering him the humidor. We lit up. "So presumably Meruleus thinks that they have been brought back to fulfil some mission, some destiny?"

"Indeed."

"When we first met them, they were very Saxon orientated. They don't like the Queen and they don't like the Church of England."

"I tried to convinced Meruleus that the present constitution has very little to do with Saxons," said Falsingham, "but he retorted that if that were true, then they wouldn't have been brought back."

"A bit of a circular argument," I said. "But does it matter? What are they going to do? Mount up and attack Buckingham Palace with their swords?"

"Well, that's the problem," said Falsingham. "And so that's where access to supernatural powers comes into it. Did I tell you about the Grail?"

I laughed. "No you didn't," I said, "but it had to fit in there somewhere, didn't it?"

Byzantium had been awash with relics. They had the True Cross on which Jesus died, found by Constantine the Great's mother on a rubbish tip outside Jerusalem. They had the Crown of Thorns, the Nails from the Crucifixion, the Sponge that Jesus drank vinegar from, the Spear that pierced his side, and the Plaque that named him "King of the Jews". They had Bread from the Last Supper, the bodies of all the Disciples, the Tears of the Virgin Mary, Veronica's Handkerchief, the Turin Shroud, the Thirty Pieces of Silver paid to Judas and the Oil that Mary Magdalene had used to anoint the feet of Jesus. They even had the rope that Judas hanged himself with, and the skull of the Donkey that Jesus had ridden into Jerusalem. It was only natural that they had the Cup that the Disciples had drunk wine from at the Last Supper - the Grail.

In a theocracy like Byzantium, where God ruled and the Emperor was God's representative on Earth, relics were political dynamite. Not only that, but they were priceless. A good relic could make you rich for life, or win your bid for power. Battles hinged on them. The economy of cities revolved around them.

Originally the Holy Grail had been housed in the Cathedral in Antioch, a much bejewelled and revered object. Then it had disappeared - an Aramaic merchant called Joseph had been implicated. Meruleus had made it his life work to recover the relic. His interest wasn't religious but occult. The Grail had contained the blood of Jesus - a powerful being. It was an object of power.

Arthur knew of the theft, but his interest was purely political. With the Grail he could raise an army and return to Constantinople. Maybe. When Arthur found himself heading westwards across Europe to escape his mistakes, he had assumed that it was only a coincidence that the Grail seemed to be heading in the same direction. However, soon after landing in Britain, Meruleus had told him that the Grail was on the island. Arthur had initiated a search for the precious relic, using the Christian faith of many of his adherents as the spur.

"Did they find it?"

"One of the searchers, a saintly young man nicknamed Perseus, claimed that he had seen the Grail at the site of an old Druid sanctuary in the marshes near Glastonbury. He had been poisoned there by person or persons unknown, and was suffering from fits and hallucinations. He died soon after returning to Arthur's camp and nobody was able to reproduce his journey."

"It's amazing how closely folktales can fit the facts," I said, non-commitally. I could tell that this was not the end of the story.

Falsingham smiled faintly and knocked the ash from the end of his cigar. "More tea?" he said.

"Yes please," I said. "Milk second this time, please."

Falsingham sat back, and ran his fingers through his hair. "What Meruleus doesn't know," he said, "is that the Masons have the Grail."

I'd been after the Grail in the past. I wasn't particularly interested in its alleged magic or scared powers, but it had occurred to me that it might look nice on the mantlepiece in my study.

"Roger," I said, circling my knuckle on his sweaty chest. "Have you ever seen the Grail?"

Roger was still breathless. "Falsingham shouldn't have told you," he said.

"But have you seen it?" I nibbled his ear lobe.

"Yes," said Roger, his hands beginning to wander. He was a quick recoverer, for a man of his age. "And so will you, soon."

I sat up and looked him in the eye. "You're bringing it here?"

"Yes. Not my decision. We contacted the Duke of Kent."

"Is that safe?"

"Why shouldn't it be?" said Roger.

"But Arthur and Meruleus may have plans," I said.

"Sounds good to me," said Roger. "Now roll over and pass the K.Y."

Public school boys learn from an early age to butter their crumpet on both sides.

Eventually Roger's divorce came through.

"I suppose that you're happy now?" said Kevin, with a bitter smile.

"I'm sorry about your mother," I said.

"It appears that she doesn't give a fuck about Peter and I," said Kevin. "She could have at least fought for custody."

"You'd rather live with your mother and her boyfriend than stay here?"

"No," said Kevin. "But she could have argued."

"The same happened to me," I said, trying to find some common ground.

Kevin went red. "Don't patronise me," he shouted. "You're not my mother and I don't give a shit about your life."

I bit my lip. "Don't you mean - 'matronise'?" I said.

Kevin slapped me across the cheek. "Bitch," he said, tears appearing in his eyes. "You're not half as funny as you think you are."

"Fair enough," I said. I recognised myself at the same age. I liked him, a lot. "How does Peter feel about me?"

Kevin barked an angry laugh. "He can't see past your tits," he said. "I think he wants to shag you."

"How very Oedipal," I said. "I'm not sure what your father would say."

"It's not fucking Oedipal because you're not his fucking mother."

"Then perhaps I could shag him after all," I said.

Kevin hit me again. "Leave us alone," he said. "The only family that you'll have after the wedding will be my father's knob in your mouth."

He stalked off.

The good thing about being rich is that one doesn't have to lift a finger arranging one's own wedding. Even my wedding dress was being donated by Wayne Hemingway (he already knew my measurements) and the photographers were to be supplied by Hello! magazine.

"Now that you're going to be married, do you intend to settle down and give up adventuring?" asked the journalist from the Daily Telegraph. The editor was a family friend, and had published more pictures of me any other English newspaper. Only Elizabeth Hurley had been given as many cleavage shots.

"I thought I'd learn how to cook," I said, with a glossy smile. "It's time I graduated from burning baked bean hooch on a Primus stove."

"Look out Nigella Lawson," said the journalist.

"Quite," I said, "although I suspect she eats more desserts than I do."

"There's a rumour that Paramount are making a film based on your autobiography."

"I've negotiated a percentage. Apparently there'll even be some action figures."

"How lovely," said the journalist.

"I think that it's empowering for little girls to learn that if you can't get your own way with sex appeal then you can always shoot the bastards."

The journalist was scribbling rapidly - I knew how to give good copy.

"Finally - are you worried about the faked nude pictures of you that have appeared on the Internet?" he asked.

"Between you and me, they're not all fake," I said, sipping my tea.

Meanwhile, Winston was making sure that the Croft Mansion and Monsignor Lehninger's church were being done up like wedding cakes.

"We've ordered thirty thousand white silk banners, Ma'am," wheezed Winston.

"Knock yourself out," I said, giving him a hug.

"And we managed to borrow suits of armour for some of Arthur's men. I'm having a go at them with the Brasso and a stout cloth."

Of course, Arthur was my little secret. Not that the journalists would have believed in him at that stage. After all, there were already several strange hippy types wandering the country claiming to be King Arthur. One more was hardly news.

I put one hand on each of Winston's cheeks. "Thank you, Winston," I said, kissing him. "You're like a Dad to me."

"And you're like a daughter to me, Miss, if I may say so."

"If I could have you giving me away," I whispered in his ear, "I would. Promise you'll always stay with me, even in Farringdon Court."

"Whatever Madam wishes," said Winston.

Father was on his way back from Kenya on a package boat, for some reason best known to himself.

"En route," his telegraph has said. "Hope to be with you in time."

"Why can't you catch a bloody plane like a normal human being?" I telegraphed back, but he'd already sailed from Alexandria.

And then, the bad news.

Winston came in with the post. He seemed sombre. "A message for you from the Foreign Office concerning Lord Croft, Ma'am," he said. He watched my face as I read.

Father's ship, the Ulysse, had been caught in a freak storm south of Malta. She had gone down, and there had been five survivors. Father was not among them.

After the initial shock, I was thoughtful. "He's not dead," I said, eventually. "I'd feel it."

Winston started to speak, but thought better of it.

"Darling, I'm so sorry," said Roger. "We'll postpone the wedding at once."

"No, honestly," I said. "Father is fine. He might not make it to the ceremony, but he'll get here in the end. He's probably trudging along the shore of North Africa to civilisation even as we speak."

And I wouldn't let them change my mind.

To this day, it amazes me that I didn't foresee the problems that there would be between Arthur's men and the church, as represented by Monsignor Lehninger. One can know ever such a lot about history, but one doesn't always remember the mind set of the people involved. The squabbling between the modern churches over the interpretation of the Bible, for example, pales when compared to the "football hooligan" religious fervour of the average Byzantine.

The wedding itself went very smoothly, which was strange in itself. Falsingham stood in for my Father, escorting me down the isle in front of two small girls who managed the train of my dress. I didn't exactly have any female friends who could have been bridemaids.

I found myself thinking of people who had been my lovers. Too many of them were dead. The rest I hadn't invited. The idea was growing my head that my previous life had been unworthy. Maybe, I thought - my emotions were mixed - maybe I really will write that cookbook. Have babies. Tend the garden. Make Roger happy. That sort of stuff. I had everything needed to make a person happy. Health. Wealth. A place in the scheme of things. England, of course. My England.

Mother had rolled up with her boyfriend. She had visited me whilst I was being dressed.

"So proud, darling," she'd said, her face strangely open. "Or at least, I'm trying to be proud. I'm not a big fan of this marriage business, as you know, but this is about you, not me."

"Thank you, Mother," I said, and gave her a grave kiss on the cheek.

"I know we're strangers," she said, rubbing a handkerchief between her fingers, "and I know that when I leave we probably won't see each other much, but I am very proud. I hope that you're very happy. You look very beautiful in that dress."

"I have been reborn a virgin," I said with a sad smile.

"You must tell me if there are any grandchildren," said Mother. "I ... I'll see you in the church. And I promise to behave."

"You know about Father's ship?"

"Yes, my darling," she said. "I don't feel that it would be appropriate for me to say anything. Conventional expressions of sorrow might seem hypocritical coming from me."

We embraced awkwardly and I sniffled a little. Then she left.

Monsignor Lehninger's response to financial blackmail was to give a lulu of a sermon. Everybody enjoyed it. Roger was trying not to smirk. Kevin kept giving us meaningful looks. Mother looked distainful. Falsingham rubbed his chin. Arthur and his men remained expressionless, presumably because they hadn't picked up more than a few words of English. Maybe I should have been more surprised at their lack of surprise when the service wasn't conducted in Greek or Latin.

"When you first came to me to be married," Lehninger said, "I had some extreme doubts. I wondered if either of you had any idea of what Christian marriage involved. You're both utterly promiscuous, with not a shred of moral conscience, and at least one of you has made a botched job of one marriage. Neither of you are church goers, and you both seem to regard the rest of society as a playground to which you owe nothing. Your family mottos should both contain the word 'theft', and there doesn't seem to be one of the seven deadly sins - with the possible exception of sloth - that you don't commit on an almost daily basis. You should be grateful that there is a merciful God - whom neither of you seem to believe in - who might be prepared to be more merciful than I would be, come the dawning of Judgement Day. I only hope that there is some capacity for competent parenting hidden somewhere in your wretched union."

It was a cracker - I nearly applauded.

The other memorable thing was the hymn that Arthur and his men sang, with Arthur taking the solo part. He had a beautiful voice, as befitting one educated in the court of Constantinople, and the hymn sounded like a cross between plainchant and the call to prayer from an Islamic mullah.

"Alleluia", they sang. "Ampelon ex egipto metiras exemblas ethni ke kataphiteusas autin, odofisas emprosthen autis ke kataphiteusas ta rizas autis, ke epliros ati gin. Alleluia." It was most rousing.

They made a wonderful arch of swords for us to walk under as we left the church. There was a lot of confetti as we got into our carriage, which was pulled by a team including my favourite, Sambo, whom I'd shipped over specially for the occasion. Arthur and his men rode escort as we trotted back to the Croft Mansion.

The wedding cards were great.

"May you rot in hell with your fucking whore, you cheating bastard." That was Roger's ex-wife.

"We cannot attend your wedding. You have behaved abominably." That was Roger's parents.

"An honest woman at last. Welcome back within the pale." That was from the Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office.

"Try not to get him killed." Unsigned and on a plain card, but obviously from my French friend Nikita.

"May God grant you many children." From the local branch of Mothercare.

"I hope that Madam and her new husband will be very happy. Yours sincerely, Winston Jeeves."

Soon the speeches were all over. Roger and I cut the cake and started the dancing. Everyone got very drunk and then, finally, the guests departed and we all went to bed.

"Happy, Mrs. Farringdon?"

"Ecstatic, darling, although I think I'll keep Croft."

And for a while he managed to help me to forgot that there was still no news of Father.

I awoke in the middle of the night with a start. I found myself reaching under my pillow for my revolver, rattled by old memories before I was entirely awake. Roger was gone, and there was the sound of a horse galloping up the drive. I looked out of the window.

Some cloaked figures were standing in the forecourt of the Croft Estate, bearing lanterns mounted on staffs. A carriage was coming up the drive in the distance.

I opened the window. "What going on?" I called.

The figures turned to look up at me. There was Roger, Meruleus, Arthur, Winston and Falsingham.

"I'll come up and tell you in minute, darling," said Roger. "Or you can come down."

"Falsingham?"

"I'm as much in the dark as you, Lara," said Falsingham. "Meruleus told me that they were expecting something that I would find interesting."

I pulled on my tracksuit and boots, and went out, revolver tucked out of sight.

"Can I get you anything, Madam?" said Winston. He was looking sleepy in the lantern light.

"If we have to be out here at this godforsaken hour," I said to him sotto voce, "pop into the kitchen and make us both a Toddy with Glenmorangie and some demarera." I leant forward and whispered into his ear. "And make sure your shotgun and helmet are ready to hand somewhere."

"Very good, Madam," said Winston.

The carriage swept up in front of us.

"It will be as I promised all those years ago, old friend," said Meruleus in his accented Greek.

Arthur had a rapt expression on his face. "Destiny," he said. He grasped Roger's hands. "Our destiny, My Lord Farringdon."

"It's the Grail, isn't it?" I said to Falsingham, in English.

Falsingham turned to me with an expression of shock. "Surely not?" he said, taking a step backwards. "Do you know how dangerous that could be?"

"Maybe you'd better get out of here," I said. "Take that horrible new Aston Martin that the film company gave me. It's in the garage. Go and find Father."

Falsingham looked at me, his mouth twisted into a wince. "What about you?"

"My place is with Roger. I'll contact you later."

Falsingham kissed me on the forehead. Then he stepped back into the shadows and was gone.

A couple of men were carrying a box from the carriage into the hall way. Everyone was too busy to notice when, a couple of minutes later, the darkened Aston Martin sneaked silently past the edge of the hedge maze and drove away. I closed the front door softly behind us.

"Where are Lord Falsingham and your man servant?" asked Meruleus.

"I think Winston is in the kitchen," I said.

Meruleus smiled. "It doesn't matter any more," he said.

"What is he talking about?" I asked, going over to Roger and taking his arm.

"I think that Arthur is going to show us," said Roger, kissing me.

Arthur was opening the front of the box. As the light spilled into it I could see the Grail, a bejewelled Byzantine chalice held in a cage of gold. Arthur unlatched the cage. As he lifted the Grail into the light, everything changed.

The jewels began to shine and the gold began to glow. Roger and I found ourselves falling to our knees. Tears of inexpressible joy began to flow down my cheeks.

Arthur held the Grail on high, a plate-like halo shining around his head.

"Christus vincit," he said, but suddenly everybody could understand him as if he was speaking plain English.

"Hallelujah," we all cried in unison

"Let New Constantinople arise," said Meruleus. "Death to all heathens."

"Amen," we all cried.

3. Holy war

We soon had people volunteering from the region around the Croft Estate. For centuries they had been subjugated, in leige to a foreign power and a heretical religion. They embraced the chance to restore Roman civilisation at once. Even a light hidden under a bushell is still a light. Messages were sent to Farringdon Court telling the stall to come to us, since it was easier to plan a strike on the capital from my house.

Arthur's men had been training them for only a small time when, quite spontaneously, they raised Roger on their shields and proclaimed him King of England. I was his Queen and Arthur was his Dux Bellorum. Meruleus was our Beloved Councillor.

We turned the dining room in the Croft Mansion into a throne room, and addressed the new court.

"It is important to us that we start as we mean to go on," said King Roger.

"It is our sincerest wish that all signs of heresy be expunged from our realm," I said. I had taken to wearing a cassock and a whimple, as a sign of my new devoutness.

"We have a priest from the one true church on his way to us from London," said the King.

"When he arrives we will be remarried properly," I said, clasping my hands and bowing my head. "In the meantime, we intend to make reparations for our sin. We shall wear hair shirts, fast and refrain from carnal intercourse."

There was a cheer, and one or two of our army wiped a tear from their eyes.

"To horse!" said the King. "To the church of the heretics!"

We made a magnificent sight as we thundered across the countryside. I rode Sambo side saddle, swishing a sword above my head and crying out suitably rousing war cries. On my head I was wearing the tiara that mother had once ordered me, wrongly assuming that I would be coming at as a debuntante at the Palace one fine day. In my belt, in case of emergencies, I wore the Dagger of Xian. Back at the house, the Ark of the Covenant had been rescued from a packing case in the cellar and was being guarded by Meruleus and a small posse of our men. If anybody knew how to use the Ark as a weapon, it was Meruleus. The only other person, perhaps, was Falsingham - but he was lost to God for the time being.

They dragged Lehninger from his church and pushed him to his knees in front of us.

"Are you prepared to renounce your heresy and return to the Church of Constantinople?" asked Arthur after the situation had been explained.

Lehninger was afraid and he looked at us all if we were mad, but he was a brave man.

"I acknowledge the Pope and Roman Catholic Church," he said. "Stop this madness. We are supposed to be bringing the churches together through ecumencalism."

"Who on earth told you that?" asked the King. "The True Church - the Orthodox Church - will never be reunited with the Church that destroyed Constantinople with its Crusades and who abandoned the City to the infidel."

They made a bonfire of the church pews and threw Lehninger and his hymn books upon it. Fortunately he had fainted and never felt the flames. We all cheered and Roger and I kissed. We had never been so happy. We could feel the stern love of Christ Pantocrator burning in our breasts.

Father Phocas arrived from London with a relic of St. Appollonia, and we had a proper Orthodox wedding under his guidance. He was overjoyed to hear of our plan to re-establish the Roman empire, and to retake Constatinople and Jerusalem from Islam.

"You will find a huge army of believers in Greece and Serbia and Russia who will flock to your aid," he said. "May God bless you."

"But first," said Arthur, "we must retake England, and then France."

"But what about the Americans?" asked Father Phocas.

""Even in that realm of Satan they despise and hate the Mahometans," said the King. "They have just elected a President who will not interfere with our plans."

"We have the support of International Freemasonary," added Arthur.

"There is a mosque and an Islam community in the nearby town," I observed. With hindsight, I regret that particular observation.

Soon afterwards, the police started to arrive. However a glimpse of the Grail and a phone call to the Chief Constable soon converted them all to our cause. Well, nearly all. There was a Jewish policeman called Constable Klein. They crucified him in the garden.

Later, we set fire to the mosque with the help of the enthusiastic townspeople, and strung the iman up from the nearest lampost. The Islamic families that we caught were offered the chance to convert to the true faith. Some of the young girls were raped, but we thought it better than they bear Christian children than more heathens. I believe both Kevin and Peter did their duty.

"We are avenged for 1453," said Father Phocas, blessing us all.

"Hallelujah," we cried.

I was lagging behind somewhat, admiring the flames rising from the ruins, when I felt a sharp thump in my neck. It was a tranquilliser dart. I remember falling from my horse, but that was all.

4. Three wise men

When I awoke, there was Father and Winston standing looking down at me.

"Father!" I said, struggling to rise. "You're alive. Thank Jesus."

"Thank a good old fashioned British Army compass," said Father mildly.

"Why am I tied to this bed?" I said. "Winston - untie me. What happened to you, anyway?"

"Madam is not well," said Winston. He should have looked embarrassed, but instead he looked uncharacteristically steely.

"I took Winston with me when I left," said Falsingham, who had been standing in the shadows.

The three of them stood looking at me.

"I'm relieved that I've found you," I said, eagerly. "You can join us."

"Who exactly is 'us'?" asked Falsingham.

"Of course - you've missed everything. Roger is King and we are going to win back England for Jesus."

"We saw what you'd done in the town," said Father. He trembled slightly. "I haven't seen anything so disgusting for a long time."

"I fought in the War, Madam," said Winston. "It was exactly the sort of thing that we were fighting against."

"I thought I'd plumbed the depths of my shame when it came to my daughter," said Father. "Sadly, I was wrong."

Tears flooded into my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I pulled futilely at my bounds.

"Steady on, chaps," said Falsingham. "She's not in her right mind."

Father looked at me from under lowered eyelids. "And what exactly is her 'right mind', Eric?" he said.

Winston shuffled his feet. "Madam may have been eccentric in the past," he said, "but I've always believed her heart is in the right place."

"It seems to me," said Father, "that she's behaving exactly as she normally does. She's just transferred her allegiance from Mammon to God."

"That is unduly harsh, Henners," said Falsingham.

Apparently I was under a spell, they said.

"It's not a spell," I explained. "It's the Holy Spirit. It's come down upon us, by the medium of the Holy Grail. We can understand each other, whatever the language. We can speak in tongues."

"Nobody is denying that the Grail is powerful," said Falsingham, picking up the Dagger of Xian that he had removed from my belt. "Were you intending to use this?"

"If necessary I suppose," I said.

"The Bible approves of people using black magic?"

The Dagger of Xian, when plunged into the heart of a human, converts them into a giant, fire-breathing Chinese dragon. It had belonged to the First Emperor of China, and he had used it against his enemies in battle. I had "liberated" it from his tomb near Beijing.

I hung my head. "You're right," I said. "It should be destroyed."

"Maybe later," said Falsingham. "And what about the Ark?"

I had retrieved the Ark of the Covenant from a warehouse in Area 51, where it had been kept after being taken from the Nazis. I'd kept it around the house as a sort of sideboard for a while, and then banished it to my cellar with the rest of the unwanted archaeological treasure.

"The Ark is God's," I said. "It is intended to be used by His armies."

"I was afraid that you were going to say that," said Falsingham.

Father was fiddling with an old glass syringe fitted with an steel needle. "I have the scopolamine," he said.

"And I have Sir's amulet," said Winston. Falsingham did a nifty line in amulets.

Through the next few minutes I screamed a lot. I damned them all to Hell. However, soon my mind was free.

I was only faintly ashamed at myself. Iï¿½ve seen possession before, and this was a possession, albeit on a vast scale.

"Fucking hell, " I said, rubbing my wrists. "I just hope that nobody videoed me."

"Madam is still wearing a wimple," said Winston.

"Christ," I said, tearing it from my head. "Has anybody got a cigarette?"

Father held out his cigarette case. "As for you," I said to him. "What was with all the abuse?" I embraced him. "I'm glad you made it."

Father relaxed a fraction, despite himself. "Well," he grumbled.

"I admit that I'm no angel, pater," I said, "but I don't deliberately persecute people."

"Scotch?" said Falsingham, holding out his hip flask. "Make sure you keep that amulet on."

"My hero," I said, taking a large swig, and blowing a smoke ring. "I don't suppose anybody packed some guns?"

"I took the liberty of taking Madam's backpack when I left," said Winston.

I winced. "Isn't it full of dirty knickers?"

"No, Madam," said Winston.

5. Devil's advocate

I knew that I was on the trail of the Army when I found three men impaled on spikes. They had hand-written signs around their necks "Death to all homosexualists" and "Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind". It's a messy way to die, and requires total belief from the executioners.

As I spend along on my newly-purchased Bultaco Sherco, I become aware of a flickering of light in the distance. It looked as if they had started using the Ark. I sped up a muddy rise and nearly collided with the police helicopter hidden behind it. There were two dead men inside, and it looked as if the engines had failed in midair. A dead helicopter is about as aerodynamic as a dead bumblebee. Further on, there were abandoned police vehicles. I was just wondering why they had been abandoned, when the motorcycle engine died below me. I tried to restart it with some violent stamping on the pedal but it was no use. The battery was dead. I got out my mobile phone to ring Falsingham, but that was dead too. Even my Breitling wristwatch had stopped. There was a feeling of static in the air. My hair stood on end, and I yelped as a spark from the handlebars nipped at my fingers. The wires on a nearby telegraph pole had been cut and there were dead starlings hanging from the bushes.

I got my kit together and started to jog towards the lights. There was nobody around and no more dead bodies. Topping a rise next to the shelter of a hedgerow, I caught my first sight of the Char valley and of the battle between Roger's army and the police. I got out my binoculars.

To the right, on the slopes of the Beranbury hillfort was a line of foot soldiers, flanked on one side by Arthur's cavalry and on the other by Roger and members of the Farringdon Hunt on horseback. On Arthur's side of the foot was Meruleus with the Ark, whilst on the other side, near his father, was Kevin, bearing the Grail. I hadn't even realised that Kevin could ride a horse.

I focused on the foot soldiers. They were local villagers and farm hands, but they were wearing makeshift armour. On one arm they carried giant shields shaped like curled playing cards, and they brandished various weapons, some having gardening implements and the rest, swords. A minority held shotguns. They were formed up in a phalanx, shields interlocked like the scales of a tortoiseshell, ready to advance.

I turned my attention to the police on the other side of the valley. In the centre was a group of riot squad men, wearing body armour and carrying large perspex Armadillo shields. To their right were a few police sharpshooters, lying flat in the grass, guns sighted on Roger's army, as well as a couple of men manning CS gas mortars. To their left was a squadron of mounted police.

I scanned around for the senior policeman in charge. I caught sight of him trying to get a megaphone to work, before throwing it disgustedly to the ground. It was my old friend the Chief Constable. I jogged down the hill, hands in plain sight, before being stopped by a couple of constables.

"This area is off limits, Miss," said one of them.

"I'm a friend of the Chief Constable," I said. "That's my husband over there."

"Lara," said the Chief Constable as I approached. "What's going on?"

"Roger has gone mad and has decided to lead an armed uprising to overthrow the government."

The Chief Constable scratched his head. "That's a bit bizarre, even by his standards," he said. "I'd try and talk to him, but none of our communications equipment seems to be working."

"That's the Ark of the Covenant over there," I said. "It's churning out a lot of electromagnetic energy."

"Is it now?" he said, without batting an eyelid. "How am I supposed to arrest them, then? With no vehicles, this is going to descend into a medieval brawl."

"I think that's the whole idea," I said. "They set it up so that they can fight on their own terms."

The Chief Constable sighed. "Thank God for the experience I picked up at Orgeave," he said.

"If I might make a suggestion," I said. "Let me go over there to grab the Grail."

"The what?"

"The Grail," I said. "The Holy Grail."

"Wonderful," said the Chief Constable. "I suppose you're responsible?"

"Just for once, no," I said. "At any rate, the Grail is exerting some sort of influence over those men, some sort of mass religious hysteria."

"What should I do to help?"

"Lend me a horse. Then - as I get going - blanket the right flank of their foot with tear gas, and get your foot squad to start an advance over the stream. If you have any smoke, lay that over their left flank. Hold back your cavalry and the snipers. If I go down, start shooting at the enemy horses. Wade in with the mounted police and lay out as many of the people on foot as you can. And warn your men that most of those people over there will strike to kill."

I got a couple of hand grenades out of my backpack, and put a couple of semi-automatic pistols in my thigh holders.

"Not particularly legal," remarked the Chief Constable.

"Thank goodness for free-thinkers, eh?" I said, stepping up into the saddle of the horse that they'd brought me. "Ready?"

But events were getting ahead of us. I saw Kevin spurring his horse down the slope at the side of their foot. Splashing into the shallow stream, he rode between the two armies, holding the Grail on high.

"Join us," I heard his reedy voice shouting. "Join the cause of righteousness. Those who die fighting with us are assured of an instant place in paradise, holy martyrs for Christ. Those who oppose us will roast in Hell forever."

The sun glinted on the Grail, and reflected light flickered over the faces of the riot police. I could see them shielding their eyes, and taking a couple of steps backwards. One or two dropped their riot shields and began to walk in zombie steps towards Roger's army.

"Shoot him!" I yelled at the snipers. "Shoot the boy on the horse."

"He's unarmed," said a sergeant. "We can't shoot him without a warning."

"He's only a boy," added one of the snipers.

"For God's sake shoot him, before you lose your foot."

"We can't do that, Ma'am."

I contemplated grabbing a sniper rifle from them, but I realised that I was wasting time. If I was going to stop Kevin, I needed to get closer. I spurred my horse down the hill.

At least the Chief Constable was on the ball. I heard the thunk of the CS mortars and the slightly more hissy bang of the smoke grenade launchers behind me. One second the battlefield was as clear as a bell in the sunshine, and the next it erupted into a foggy hell. It was only then that I remembered that neither I nor the horse had gas masks.

She was a good police horse and she didn't flinch at the explosions. "Come on girl," I whispered in her ear, patting her neck. "Let's nip round the back of our troops and see if we can catch them napping."

We galloped around the back of the riot squad, who were milling around in confusion. The men who had obeyed the order to advance were being foiled by their bewitched colleagues in the front line. At least Kevin and the Grail were no longer visible.

As we rode from the police right flank to the left, we passed from smoke into tear gas. I held my breath and closed my eyes. I don't know how the horse coped. Maybe they'd trained her to hold her breath as well. Our side had donned gas masks, but I could hear the coughing from Roger's army. I rounded our left flank, and headed through the gap between our foot and our cavalry, straight towards the stream. Where was Kevin? I comforted myself with the thought that if I couldn't see him, then our side could no longer see the Grail.

I splashed across the stream just as something flew towards us. It was a steel spear. It embedded itself in the horse's side next to my leg. She fell. I managed to jump free and landed on my side with a splash of icy water. I stumbled up and over to where she lay. She kicked once, whinnied and then died.

"Bastards," I said under my breath, whiffs of tear gas making my eyes flood.

There was a thundering of hooves as a horseman drew up beside me in the fog. It was Kevin, the Grail tucked into the front of his coat.

I unholstered my guns.

"Strumpet," said Kevin. "She-whore of the Devil."

"There's no need for that kind of language."

Kevin unsheathed a sword. "Prepare to die," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, waving the guns at him.

However, it wasn't as easy as I thought to shoot him. I liked him. Before I'd finished registering this thought, Kevin had spurred his horse forward and clouted me on the right shoulder. I staggered to my knees and dropped one of my guns into the water.

"You little shit," I gasped. "Wait until I tell your father." My clothes began to stain with blood.

Kevin and his horse wheeled around for another blow, but he hesitated when he saw my remaining gun pointed straight at him.

"I don't want to have to kill you," I said. "Just give me the Grail."

Kevin snorted. "I'd rather die."

"This isn't a game, Kevin. You will die."

"So be it," said Kevin. "My soul is clear."

"Listen to yourself." I could hear a pleading tone in my voice. "Listen to yourself. How old are you? Surely you want to live."

"I'd rather have a few years on earth than an eternity of damnation," said Kevin. "Your reluctance to strike shows the doubt that will always lurk in the heart of an unbeliever. Evil can never look good straight in the eye."

"Kevin," I said. "Don't do this. I will kill you. Once you give me the Grail you'll see the sense of it all."

"I die a martyr for my Saviour," said Kevin and spurred his horse forward.

I squeezed the trigger for a split second and his head disintegrated. The horse reared, and his body fell into the stream. I retrieved the Grail. Some angry tears rolled down my cheeks. If there is any evil in the world, I reflected, then one of its forms is the indoctrination of children too young to know any better.

Then, for a moment, the smoke and the fog cleared. I was surrounded on all side by police and soldiers.

"Watch!" I shouted. "Watch this, all of you!"

Then was a strange lull in the fight and all eyes were on me.

I laid the Grail on a flat stepping stone in the centre of the stream, and raised another stone above my head. There was a gasp of horror from all around.

"Stop her, for the love of Jesus," I heard a voice say, but they were too late.

I began to hammer the Grail with my rock. The jewels began to fly away like popcorn, and the gold shone as brightly as freshly scooped butter. The cloisonne panelling crumbled into crumbs, and the chalice became two-dimensional, a smashed and warped thing, ugly and useless. Five or six good blows, and the Grail was destroyed. Two millennia of greed and yearning destroyed in an English field.

I held up the remains. "It's just a cup," I yelled. "Just a thing. No object, however precious, however significant, is worth even one life."

Looking back, I suppose I thought that would be the end of it. Grail destroyed, spell broken, problem solved, home for a stiff scotch before teatime, that sort of thing. I imagined that people would be a bit annoyed that I'd smacked the Holy Grail with a large rock, but at least they wouldn't be foaming at the mouth for Jesus.

Men from both sides rushed forward to disarm me. Roger, Meruleus and Arthur rode up. Meruleus was dressed up as some sort of priest, with a Syrian headdress and decorated robes covered with Aramaic script.

"You evil bitch," said Roger.

"You'll be contacting your divorce lawyer I suppose?" I said.

Arthur dismounted. He was weeping. He gathered up the remains of the Grail. "Ignoble," he said. "An ignoble end for the most sacred of relics."

"I'm going to have you burnt at the stake," said Roger.

"I thought that if I got rid of the Grail, you'd all come to your senses," I said.

"Foolish woman," said Meruleus. "The Grail did not control people's minds. It simply freed them to think for themselves."

"Damn right," said Roger.

"Really?" I said to him, in my snottiest voice.

Roger laughed. "Do you honestly think that I want an England full of foreigners and communists and queers and wogs?" he said. He wasn't talking to me any more; he was making a speech to the troops. "For years I've been held back by political correctness and the warped legacy of the 60's. Now, finally, at last, the Grail has set me free."

I tried to interrupt. "Do you mean to tell me that all this time you've been some sort of closet Nazi?"

"Isn't everybody, at heart?" said Roger with cold disdain. "Aren't you?"

"We misjudged you Lara," said Meruleus. "We thought that you shared the same contempt for the infidel races of the world as we do."

"You've shot enough of the bastards," said Roger. "Thought you were one of us."

I flinched inwardly. It's easy to make a person feel guilty when they are standing in a cold stream with a nasty shoulder wound. "I've never killed in the name of Jesus," I said.

"So what do you kill for?" said Meruleus, with a hint of amusement. "A more worthy cause? Please enlighten us."

I straightened my weary limbs and put my hands on my hips. "Why don't all you go fuck yourselves?" I said.

At that moment Roger caught sight of Kevin's body, and the blood drained from his face. He dismounted slowly and bent over the remains of his son. He gave a long, long look of hatred, so intense that I blushed. I found myself on the verge of trying to apologise.

Roger walked over to Arthur and raised him to his feet. "Lara is right," he said. "That Grail was just an object. The real Grail shines brightly in heaven."

"Let us finish this," said Arthur, dropping the pieces of gold into the water.

They both mounted up.

Roger raised his sword. "For God, England and St. George," he shouted, "kill them all."

"Christ will rule here," echoed Arthur. "Deus vult!"

"Deus vult!" shouted soldier and policeman alike in a unison roar. They all turned and began to walk back up the hill towards the Chief Constable and the remnants of his men. On the horizon I could see a horse and cart silhouetted. Three old men appeared to be struggling together, and I recognised them, even from that distance.

"Falsingham," I said under my breath. What were they fighting over? Surely this was no time for an argument.

"Take her up there, near the Ark," ordered Meruleus. "Tie her to a tree. We'll burn her during our victory feast. If she escapes then you'll take her place."

They began to drag me away.

"Oh, and Lara?" said Meruleus.

"It's Lady Croft to you, God boy."

Meruleus laughed. "Don't try and activate the Ark," he said. It consumes the unworthy who attempt to use it."

"Well - doh!" I replied.

I had a bird's eye view of the end of the battle.

Roger's swollen army began to pulverise the remainder of the law and order posse. Arthur and the rest of the cavalry demonstrated to the mounted police the superiority of a sharpened lance over a long truncheon. The police snipers managed to get off a few shots before they were disembowelled by the mob. A few study men formed a shield wall around the Chief Constable but it was clear that there was only moments left.

My eye was caught again by Father, Falsingham and Winston. Winston was coming down the hill in a shambling run. Falsingham grabbed him by the shoulder and Winston felled him with an elegant left hook. Action had never been Falsingham's forte, but then neither was it Winston's. My jaw dropped.

Father ran up and I could see him remonstrating with Winston. Winston waved some sort of weapon at him, and Father backed off, palms upraised. Then, to my surprise, Winston reversed the dagger in his hands and stabbed it deeply into his own chest.

I suddenly got it. "Oh my God," I said. "Winston - no."

A semicircle of light mushroomed around Winston and flew outwards like a nuclear explosion. There was a roaring sound audible to me even at that distance, and the ground shook. The outward flying light hardened, and then there was the Dragon of Xian, roaring at the sky.

The Dragon clumped towards Roger's stunned army in that familiar pigeon-toed way, each step shaking the leaves from the trees, and setting off small landslides of earth. I could hear it drawing in its breath like a huge wheezy accordion, and the rasping of its glottis as it made the sparks to ignite its digestive gases. A huge roar of yellow flame engulfed the foot soldiers, followed by another, and another. Flaming figures ran about the hill side, colliding with each other. I could hear screams being cut off as men drew the scalding air into their lungs.

Arthur and his men formed into a squadron. Their horses were nearly uncontrollable, but the riders brought them under control with vicious stabbings and whippings. Arthur gave a war cry - I didn't hear what - and they all rode straight at the Dragon, lances raised. It was like bees attacking an alligator. Soon Arthur, Roger and all the rest were gone.

I saw Meruleus standing not far off from the carnage, armed raised. I imagined that I could hear him chanting something.

"Lara!"" I heard a voice shout. It was Father and Falsingham on horseback. My guards had run away and so they untied me.

"Why did you let him do it?" I shouted, pummelling Falsingham-s chest. "He's just an old man. Surely between the two of you ...?"

Falsingham let me batter myself into silence. "What happens when we take the Dagger out?" he asked, gently.

"He's dead," I said.

"Would it help if we called an ambulance?" said Father, his eyes reddened.

"It will have cut his heart in two," I said, weeping. I sat down in the mud.

Falsingham closed his eyes. He sighed deeply. "But what a heart," he said, at length.

"Here, here," said Father.

We watched as the Dragon engulfed Meruleus in flames. Meruleus seemed to stand up to it for much longer than should have been possible. Some piece of old magic struggling to the very last, no doubt.

NOTICE: The character "Lord Falsingham" is a creation of gifted Tomb Raider author "Dr. Amazing", and I've used him only with permission. Lord Falsingham can be found in his natural habitat in the "Swimsuit Trilogy" stories.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: An icon of the Prophet

**Chapter Five: An icon of the Prophet **

Part One: 1996

1 ... ornaments of gold

I was rifling through the records of Kabul Museum when the rocket attack started. I wasn't sure if they were government rocket or rebel rockets, but they certainly brought the house down.

The Darulaman Palace is a symmetrical pile that looks not entirely unlike the Croft Mansion. From the front there can be seen two large bowed windows, two stories high and above them, set back are twin square towers topped by glass atrium skylights in the shape of a pyramidion. I was on the second floor of the east wing, Maglight clamped in my teeth and fists deep into the Director's filing cabinet, when I heard the whoosh.

I flung myself to the ground, pulling the Director's desk over as I went to try and provide cover.

There was a tremendous explosion and then flames. I was both deafened and stunned. The windows at the front of the building and above me vapourised - there were very few glass shards, but there was a fog of pulverised silicon suddenly filling the air. What there was, was brick and stone shrapnel, crashing about the room.

The desk next to me was cleft by a large piece of rock travelling at supersonic speed and then, to my astonishment, for I myself was not hurt, the files that I had crunched up in my hands burst into flames.

"How can that be?" I thought. I was too dazed to think. I threw away the burning fragments, and tried to clear my head by unblocking my Eustachian tubes and rubbing my forearm across my streaming eyes.

I got up, thinking vaguely of finding a fire extinguisher. The flames were tinted a violet colour - I couldn't work out if it was due to the metal in the paint or in the fuel - and they roared like a burning gas tap. The chances were that the fire extinguisher, if I could have found, would have been dry for years.

There was smoke and I staggered around a bit. I could either fling myself through the hole were the wall had been, or I could try and find the door. I needed to find what I had come for, especially if the whole place was about to burn down, so I opted for the door.

At that moment there was another explosion, punctuated with semiautomatic fire, and the floor gave way beneath me.

In retrospect it seems typical that the mujahed civil war would have picked this little bit of the country to fight over just as I was there.

I have good reflexes, so I grabbed onto a wooden beam as I fell. The beam provided the ceiling for one of the major exhibit halls in the museum and I was dangling about twenty feet above the floor. Next to me a pile of burning debris, including most of the Director's office, fell to the ground. I could see a large display case filled with Bactrian terracotta from Ai Khanoum, dating from the time of Alexander the Great. Irreplaceable. In the next second it was all brickdust as a large bookcase fell squarely on top of it.

Museums are reknowned for being as dry as dust and Kabul Museum was no exception. The whole room below me seem to burst into flames - 3rd century carved ivories in classic Indian styles, Chinese lacquers, seventh-century Buddhist sculptures from Fondukistan made of unbaked clay reinforced with wooden frames and horsehair, Kafir ancestral wooden effigies from Nuristan, priceless Islamic textiles - they all burnt a treat. Fire doesn't discriminate.

"Fuck," I said, partly out of regret at the loss and partly because I was hanging by a dodgy plank of wood between two floors that were on fire. "That's your tourist industry gone up in smoke lads."

A couple of feet away was the first of a number of dusty chandeliers. I began to try and swing on my piece of wood. I yelped as I felt splinters going into my fingers, and my efforts as a pendulum seemed doomed to failure. I was about to fall into the fire below when the heel of one of my boots got snagged on a piece of rococo chandelier metal work. The next moment I was hanging upside down, with a century of dust and dead spiders showering onto my face and with the end of my ponytail smouldering.

The metal dug into the flesh of my heel and I could feel blood. The pain was excruciating and I wriggled and struggled until I managed to get my hand over the edge of the chandelier. I was pulling myself up when the ancient light bulb under my hand shattered, spearing my hand with glass. Fortunately my other hand had already got a purchase, and I gradually ended up crouching on top of the thing, head crushed up against the chalky ceiling.

I could have done with about ten minutes rest at that point - a nice cup of tea, some band-aids, a smoke - but the ceiling was hot and the chandelier fittings were creaking. The smoke rising from below smelt lovely - old perfume and incense. Unfortunately it was also rather dense and hot.

It would have been nice if the chandelier was been shaped like a waggon wheel and attached to the ceiling by a long length of rope. That's the way they always are in Westerns or action films when the hero swings across the room like Tarzan. This particular one seemed to be attached to the ceiling by a lump of crap. There was brown 1930's wiring, what looked like a bit of fireside poker, some congealed gunk made up of human sweat and skin flakes, and a mummified mouse. As for the chandelier itself - it was made of three large bits of brass about the size of a car tyre, several hundred filthy glass jewels, and a minefield of ancient light bulbs. I wondered when the last time it had actually shed any light.

I gingerly let myself down by one of the brass things and immediately felt the flames scorching my heels. I straightened my legs so that they were at right angles to my torso, hoping to start a backwards swing. The chandelier didn't budge. Fair enough, I thought. I'll do one of those gymnastic things - a midair flip - and catch hold of the next chandelier along.

At that moment the whole ceiling fell in.

For many years I had known a Professor of History called Nooria Dubery, whose French husband Louis, now dead, had been an expert in Afghan archaeology. She was about fifty when she was been forced to leave the country. Many of the more reknowned historians in Afghanistan had been women, but unfortunately history had overtaken them. Not only was Nooria a Muslim, she was a Sunni Muslim, but when she had told the more hardline members of the temporary government of the Islamic Students in Kandahar that "based on the Koran it is more important for women to continue their education than stay at home", it hadn't gone down particularly well. Soon after in the street a Talib field commander called Mohammed Basmachi had offered to have her whipped on the spot for un-Shari'at thoughts, but she'd taken refuge inside the offices of an NGO called "Sandy Gall's Afghanistan Appeal" where there happened to be a bunch of Western pressmen, and thus had escaped him. However she hadn't escaped a self-imposed exile in the long run.

"Interesting lecture," I said to Nooria after one of the rare academic conferences that I bothered to attend. We were in London.

Nooria smiled and tucked her fringe back inside her scarf. "Thank you," she said, seeming genuinely pleased. "Have you been interested in Alexandria-in-the-Caucasus for long?"

"I'm always interested in lost cities," I said. "Is it all right if I drink?"

"This is an English public house," said Nooria, gesturing around her. She sipped at her orange juice.

"I didn't think you lot were allowed in pubs."

"Please. I'm not from Saudi Arabia."

We laughed.

"I just read something that a women wrote on your site," I said.

"My site?"

". Revolutionary Women of Afghanistan whatsit."

"Hardly mine," she said, despite being a stalwart member. "What did this woman write?"

"We seek your freedom, not your abuse of freedom. She was writing to some American. All sounded a bit Ayatollah Khomeni to me."

Nooria smiled. "What do you want me to say?"

"I thought you lot were opposed to fundamentalists?"

"We're all good Muslims," said Nooria, with a twinkle in her eye. She leaned forward conspiratorially. "You know what - it's interesting. There seems to be a perception in the Western press that the only people who are opposed to fundamental Islam are non-Muslims."

"Whereas in reality it's the Sunnis who are opposed to Shiite fundamentalism and the Shiites who are opposed to Sunni fundamentalism," I said.

Nooria snorted. "As Louis used to say - touché," she said.

I offered her a cigarette but she waved the packet away with a youthful giggle. She liked to think of me as shocking.

"I read the records of your husband's excavation at Borj-i-Abdulla," I said, flicking my zippo and blowing a plume of smoke well away from her

"He would have been sad to hear that the military had turned the site into a minefield."

"Probably the best way to protect it," I said.

"Would it keep you away?"

"Probably not."

"So," said Nooria, politely waiting for me to put down my whisky glass. "There is a small ... problem that I thought might interest you."

"Oh yes?"

"My husband's field journals. They are still in Kabul."

"I thought all his work was published?"

"On the contrary." There was a moment's sadness, soon gone. "I just thought - if you used your Western press pass to obtain a visa, and carried with you, maybe, a letter from me ..."

"Isn't the museum shut up?" I said.

"There'll be staff there somewhere," she said. She wasn't to know that General Omar's men were about to take the capital, and that my visa, authorised by the Rabbani government, would become useless almost as soon as I had arrived from Islamabad.

"Does this mean that I might get to be a co-author on a paper?"

Nooria shrugged and laughed. "It would be my honour," she said. "It would be Afghanistan's honour."

Try an experiment sometime. Set fire to a piece of paper and then hit it with a fly swatter. The fire will be blown out. That was the effect that the ceiling and I had on the fire at the floor level of the museum gallery. Not that I landed on the floor. I almost broke my back on a large statue of King Kanishka of Kush.

I scrambled down, suppressing my urge to start swearing. I could sense that there were soldiers out there, and that they were just looking for a handy moving target. I strained my ears for the sound of whispering or the clack of a rock tipping under a boot, but I could hear nothing except the creaking of half burnt objects and the whistle of a breeze. The smoke was well into my lungs, but fortunately a decade of spliffs had help me learn to control my cough reflex. I wiped the tears from my eyes one at a time so that I could keep a look out.

I took from the pocket of my combat trousers the floor map that I had ripped from Dupree's Guide to Kabul Museum. I hadn't found anything in the director's office to tell me where the field journals might be kept, but the library and the basement seemed like reasonable options. Unfortunately both would be locked, and the sound of splintering wood would have soldiers swarming all over me like ants over a corpse, but there was no other. Assuming that the whole thing hadn't already been burnt.

"Chist?" I heard a voice call outside, and I ducked down. "Che ast?" If I'd been more educated I'd have been able to tell if this was Dari or Pashto, or both, or neither, and then to deduce from that which group the soldier belonged to. Or maybe not, and even if I had I doubt whether it would have helped me much, despite my letter from Nooria.

I did a snake crawl over the rubble - possibly one of the most uncomfortable things a girl can do outside of an S and M club - and made it to where the door had been. I needed to get away from the remains of the windows and into the interior of the Palace where there was cover.

There was a main atrium with a staircase going up - been there, done that - and another going down. The library was on the ground floor, so I opted for the easy option and headed down for the basement, sliding along the wall, and heeling and toeing it to reduce the sound of my feet on the marble. Behind me the fire was starting up again - I could hear the eager crackling.

"Chap," came the voice, distantly. "Baash!" It sounded as it they'd found a landmine, or something else that needed careful treatment. There was a couple of rifle shots and then a shout. However I was too busy to pay attention to them.

The basement was a maze of old corridors, the remnants of a small service industry from the days when the Darulaman Palace had housed the Afghan royal family. The rooms weren't on the map, so I'd have to search randomly and hope that I got lucky.

I realised, after about ten minutes, that anything in a newish looking crate was valuable. Unknown to me plans were afoot to ship a large part of the collection to the Intercontinental Hotel in Kabul, officially to protect it, and unofficially ... who knew? One crate contained trays and trays of silver coins; I even caught sight of some double decadrachmas of Amyntas, the biggest Greek silver coins ever minted, each worth a king's ransom. I was tempted to pocket one, but I reckoned it might undermine my credibility if I was caught. Another crate contained priceless Kushan ivories from Begram whilst a third was packed full of gold ornaments from Tillya-tepe. They were all very portable, and my fingers itched, but it was more than my life was worth. Recently I've heard that some of these things can be had on the international art market for the right price. Some people have tried to blame the Soviets for the thefts, but it seems unlikely that the Soviets sneaked back into the country to nick the stuff in 1996, years after they'd been driven out.

However, that was all irrelevant. I had to keep my eye on the ball. It seemed likely that old field journals, financially worthless, wouldn't be in any of the new crates.

I was tiptoeing down an ill-lit corridor when I heard a growl. I turned my Maglight onto the sound, and there was a large Afghan hound. I almost burst out laughing. You cannot get a more silly graceless fop of a dog than an Afghan hound, and here one was, in Afghanistan. Hurrah, I thought. Then the dog growled again and I noticed the foam around its mouth and the redness of its eyes.

Rabies, I thought, and reached for one of my Browning pistols. My invariable method of dealing with hostile animals is to shoot them. But then I heard the footfalls on the floor above me. One noise - even a bark - and I'd be discovered.

The Afghan hound leapt at me.

2 ... those who drag forth

I stopped it in midair by punching it hard on the chest. Flecks of foam splattered on my face, and as I started to wipe it away the dog jumped again.

I was wearing leather gloves and stout combat trousers, but I had a feeling that if I was bitten I'd have a certain amount of trouble getting an anti-rabies jab, even in Kabul.

The dog jumped again. I pushed it away again. It snarled as it skidded around on the floor, knocking small objects around with its clumsy feet. There was a loud clattering sound. I strained to heard any reaction from above. The dog jumped for a third time, ands got its teeth into my forearm. I slammed it against the wall and it gave out a loud yelp.

This was getting stupid, I thought. I was going to have to silence it before it got me killed.

I was stooping to get my knife out of its ankle holder when the Afghan bowled me over. It wasn't very heavy but I couldn't get a purchase on the floor. Its teeth were snapping at my nose. I held it off with one hand, coughing and spluttering. It had bad breath, and I'd gotten more foam in my face. I wondered if one could get rabies from stuff that fell in one's eyes.

I was bringing the knife around to finish it off when it sank its teeth into my ear. Such was my apprehension about being infected that I dropped the knife and grabbed its muzzle. I wrenched its jaws open and twisted my head away.

Holding it firmly, I got onto my knees and then to my feet. I tried letting go with one hand to reach for the knife, but my purchase was too slippery and I had to give it up. I tried twisting the dog's head to break it's neck, but the Afghan began to flop around like a giant rug. Eventually my gloves became too slippery with saliva, and the dog broke free.

It skittered off, turned and began to bark. Fear had finally penetrated its hydrophobic aggression.

"Fuck!" I hissed, trying to find my knife. "Shh! Good boy!"

The knife was nowhere to be found, so I threw myself at the animal. I landed heavily on it, trying for the head again, but only managing to grab it around the chest. The dog scrabbled at my skin with its long, untrimmed claws. I nearly cried out.

The dog was trying to bite me again so I tried for a headbutt. It had already bitten me at least once, and I was through pissing about with it. One can recover from rabies most easily than one can recover from a bullet in the head. There was blood and a canine tooth - not mine - fell into my leg.

We rolled about a bit, me swearing and the dog yelping. I wondered if I could rip its tongue out. Or even bite it off.

The mixture of dust and foam on my face was beginning to obscure my vision. I remembered watching a film in which an assassin had masked his gun with a pillow. It was the expanding gases that made the sound, wasn't it?

I managed to get hold of a pistol, and put the muzzle against the dog's side. I pulled the trigger, and there was an enormously loud bang. So much for that theory.

Dogs are quite tough. The Afghan was thrown onto the floor, a gaping wound in its flank. Then it leapt up as if nothing had happened, and started run away down the corridor.

I was relieved for a split second, but then I had an image of the dog running up the stairs from the basement, an obviously fresh gunshot would in its side. I had to catch it or I was fucked.

Afghan hounds are related to greyhounds. They can sprint extremely well. I can sprint quite well, but only for short distances, and then I run out of energy.

I wasn't far behind it when it sprinted up the staircase to the next floor. Too late, I thought. Suddenly there was a burst of semi-automatic fire and a yelp.

I could hear a roar of laughter and then, very clearly, a Western voice.

"What was it?"

"A dog," said an Afghan voice.

"Why are they laughing?" I could hear the disgust.

"Well, it was only a dog! And Ahmad very bravely shot it. He is a brave man."

"Is what's left of the museum secured?" Acidly dry sarcasm. Apparently too dry for the soldiers.

"Yes sir. Pashtoon fighters are the best in Afghanistan."

There was some ragged cheering. "Let's get on with it, shall we?" said the Western voice. He sounded like a weary sports master trying to finish a 3rd Eleven football match on a rainy Saturday afternoon. "You're all being paid enough, so try not to blow up anything else, there's good chaps."

I legged it back down into the cellar. The quicker I found Professor Dubery's field notes, the quicker I could get away from that voice. Nothing had scared me so far, but that voice ... it reminded too much of my boarding school. I imagined being given six of the best in front of a group of salivating militia.

There was one dusty area that I hadn't been in. I found myself scanning the floor for paw prints, but nothing has disturbed it for months, which was promising. I picked the rusty lock of a large door. It took a while and a good deal of strength. My fingers were aching by the time I pushed it open. I scanned the room with my torch - there were shelves and shelves of box files and books. There were also - to my delight - what looked like reports of archaeological digs, some hand written.

It was easy to find two notebooks with the name Dubery under the title. They were written on thick paper in neat unfaded ink - "An account of the Bactrian ruins at Borj-i-Abdulla. 1966. Principle archaeologist: Louis Dubery. Expedition sponsor: King Zahir Shah." Nooria had been a twenty year old student at Kabul University at the time. It was a more emancipated era, and she had met the charismatic foreign academic whilst helping on the dig. Nonetheless, even then it was unusual for a Afghan woman to marry a non-Muslim, however educated and middle class. Times had certainly changed.

I stuffed the field journals in my backpack and was about to leave when I found myself looking at what I was about to leave behind. Priceless documentation of long lost sites, now even more lost than previously. Many of these archaeological sites would have been dug up since the Soviet invasion in the search for gold, by people more interested in buying food and medicine than history. Some of these documents might be the only surviving records.

I took another notebook at random. It was handwritten in Arabic script by a scholar whose name I couldn't read, but the inscriptions and the drawings were clear enough to me. I let the book fall open and there was a meticulous sketch of a fragmentary piece of text. "hAlABI πROπheteS et SeRGIVS SA" read one phrase. "tA MeRe teS ethRIB" read another. It had obviously been written by someone with a confused grasp of alphabets.

I turned to the back of the notebook, and there was what I guessed was a list of artefacts along with their code numbers. No doubt somewhere there'd be neatly drawn maps showing the exact locations where they'd been found. I can't read Arabic, but I can make out Arabic numerals. The numbers ran from roughly 10 to 1000 and next to number 57, embedded in the Arabic sentence, was the name "SeRGIVS" again and the Latin word "ephemeris".

I'm naturally nosy. I tried to match the writing on the front of the notebook with some of the boxes on the shelves. Several boxes seemed to fit the bill, and the number scheme seemed to match. I lifted down the fourth box in a long row, and unsealed the lid. Inside, lying next to the sandy pottery and remnants of textile was a slim package - number 57. It was made of some sort of waterproof cloth bound with twine. I unwrapped it gingerly. Inside were some small panes of glass, and pressed between them like rare dried flowers were fragments of papyrus, each covered with faded spidery writing.

I hesitated. If I removed the artefact from its context, then I was risking the destruction of what looked like a well conceived archaeological dig, albeit one from the turn of the century. Of course it was possible that I'd get back to the UK and discover that the whole thing had been analysed and published years ago. It was equally possible that the whole collection would be destroyed by a rocket in the next few days. I couldn't take it all with me, so I compromised, tucking the notebook and the package into my backpack.

I can always return it later when peace returns, I thought. Cupidity is the mother of self-deception.

I needed a plan to get out of there. I toyed with the idea of shutting myself in a crate full of treasure and allowing myself to be taken to the baddie hideout and then, like a member of the Famous Five, leaping out and exposing them all to the authorities. However, I decided that I didn't really give enough of a fuck. If the Afghans were stupid enough to blow up or sell their cultural heritage, then good luck to them. All I really wanted was a hot bath and then a nice seat in business class flying out of Kabul International Airport.

I wondered if I could hide until nightfall and then sneak off. I'd arrived wrapped from head to foot in a lovely chador and on a public bus. I'm sure I could get a taxi with a minimum of effort - a fistful of dollars is good in any country, except possibly the UK.

I wondered if the building was still on fire and when they'd be down to collect the crates. If that's what "they" were up to. Unfortunately at that moment, somebody stuck a pistol muzzle to the back of my head.

"And who are you? - Don't turn around!" said the Western voice.

"I work for C.N.N.," I said. "It's a slow news day so I thought I'd do something cultural."

"Kabul has just fallen to General Omar."

"See what I mean? One Afghan warlord is much like another. It's hardly going to compete with home news, is it?"

"I want you - still without turning around - to show me some identification papers."

I fished my British passport out of my pocket and held it up, open. "You must be with customs, then," I said. "Are you here to confiscate the contents of the museum as illegal contraband?"

"Lara Croft," said the Western voice. He swore an unlikely oath under his breath, something school-boyish.

"Have we met?"

"Sorry about this old girl," he said, and knocked me unconscious.

When I woke, for a second I thought I'd was in my grave. It was black and stifling and there was material over my face. I thrashed around in a blind panic, only to find that I was still in the museum basement, hidden under a tarpaulin. The Westerner, whoever he was, had saved me from an uncomfortable interview with his men.

I walked in from the suburbs, keeping to the shadows. Most streets, when viewed in cross-section, resemble the letter 'U', with vertical walls and a flat road. Many of the streets in Kabul that night were shaped like the letter "V", and so it was sometimes tricky to find a route through the rubble. At least I wasn't likely to be picked up by a motorised patrol. The September air was icy with a ferocious wind chill factor and so it was very easy to remain muffled and anonymous. I just hoped that the dust wouldn't cause me to let out a female sneeze or cough at the wrong moment. I had a horrible suspicion that there was a curfew for girls.

As I neared the Presidential Palace, I heard shots and shouts and the roaring of car engines. I made myself as inconspicuous as possible and watched.

Several Datsun two-doors pick-ups - gifts from the Saudi government and the favourite vehicle of General Omar's troops - were driving round and round the palace to much excitement and applause. One of the pick-ups was dragging something behind it.

As I watched, the trucks stopped. The dragged thing was the bloated body of a old man, barely recognisable. They strung him up from the nearest lamppost and there was the Taliban equivalent of a forty-one gun salutes, only using Kalashnikovs. There was a rain of spent bullets for a minute afterwards.

The fat dead man, I learned later, was ex-President Najibullah, the ex-Communist leader and Soviet collaborator. General Omar's army had grabbed him out of UN protective custody - protective in the sense that only the UN uses the word - and tortured him. When they got fed up, they executed him. When the mob strung up Mussolini and his mistress for the world's cameras the world cheered. Maybe the Taliban were hoping for the same approbation. More likely they didn't really care.

I decided that the sooner I got back to my hotel and mingled with the foreign correspondents the better I'd be. When I got there, there was a crowd of pressmen standing watching the soldiers, who were busy carrying crates out of the hotel and laying them in the street.

I recognised an Australian reporter who'd come in at the same time as me.

"Where have you been?" he said, astonished. "You were lucky not to be shot."

"Out and about," I said, "picking up a few souvenirs and checking out the night life. What's going on?"

"They've found all the beer in the hotel cellar."

At that moment I heard the cough of an engine starting - there was a T55 parked a little way up the road.

"Surely not?" I said.

"They like their gestures to be as literal as possible," said the Australian, rubbing his mouth and looking thirstily at the crates.

The tank rumbled down the road and flattened the crates, filling the air with the sound of crashing glass and the smell of hops.

"I can't think of a better way of pissing off the foreign press corps," I observed, after it was all over.

"Neither can I," said the Australian, who was about to take a photograph.

I snatched down his hand. "Put it away. It's forbidden."

"If they didn't want us to photograph it then why set it all up?"

"They weren't setting anything up," I said. "They were just enforcing Shari'a law."

"Christ," said the Australian. "What a bunch of lunatics."

"Welcome to the seventh century. Let's get indoors."

I'd picked a bad time to try and leave Afghanistan with stuff nicked from the museum. True it didn't look like anything valuable, but I had an idea that if I was stopped at customs I'd be for the high jump.

I needed a way of getting the stuff out of the country and there were only two ways - via a diplomatic bag or via smugglers. I wondered for a second if the new government would give me permission to export the stuff - why should they care? - but I realised that even they were interested in American dollars.

I pored over my Essential Field Guide to Afghanistan and tried to work out where the British Embassy was and whether the route to it was mined. In the end I decided to take a taxi. I wasn't sure if the Embassy would still be open - officially it had been abandoned two years earlier.

I kept a gun in sight as the taxi bumped and weaved through the ruins of Kabul. No point in asking if the driver was taking the most direct route. The shortest distance between two points in Afghanistan usually runs through a trap. The driver seemed to know where the army checkpoints were and how to avoid them. Eventually we pulled up outside a slightly bigger pile of rubbish, the remains of a magnificent house.

"What is this supposed to be?" I asked the driver. He spoke French.

He cackled. "It was the British Embassy. They handed it over to the Pakistanis two years ago and then it was shelled."

"You could have told me this earlier."

The driver gave a Gallic shrug. "A fare is a fare."

"Why shouldn't I shoot you?"

"Ohhh!" he said, flapping his hands in mock terror. "The spirit of Malalai has come back to haunt us." Malalai being an nineteenth century housewife who had exhorted her compatriots to drive the British out of Afghanistan. Not the most fortunate metaphor.

I didn't know enough French swear words to carry on the conversation. I wound down the window and subjected the ruined embassy to an intense examination. I was still wondering about the Westerner who had rescued me in the museum. He was unlikely to be a pressman or else I'd have come across him in my hotel, and he was unlikely to be with an NGO if he was removing archaeological treasures from the country. He'd sounded public school-educated to me, and besides he'd acted as if he knew who I was. I smelt a rat.

I gave the driver a wad of US dollars. "If you report me I'll find you," I said. He chuckled as he drove off in a screeching of gears.

The embassy was surrounded by what could laughingly be described as a residential district. I could hear voices, a radio, children and I could smell cooking. Nothing that close, though, which made me wonder about booby traps.

I tooled up. I blacked out my eye sockets and pulled on a balaclava. I put a red filter over my Maglight torch and exchanged my boots for dark plimsolls. Just inside the ruined gateway I took a risk and buried my back pack, still containing the field journals, under a pile of rocks. I was fairly certain that nobody had seen me.

The first thing that I found, slinking round the side of the mansion, were sets of tyres tracks leading from one of the back streets. There was the remains of a garden, overgrown with weeds and rubbish.

The building itself looked worse from the front than the back. There were still some intact rooms, and of more immediate interest to me, an intact steel door. It was locked. I examined the lock - it was freshly oiled, free from dust and cobwebs. Interesting.

There was an old barrack room. Presumably British soldiers had come back here after a hard week's work being slaughtered on the Khyber Pass by Afghan war lords. I wasn't sure what I was looking at, at first. There was an enormous press, a bit like a wine press or a printing press, but stained with brown. There was a tin bath, some demilitre bottles containing an acrid smelling liquid, some stained muslin sheets and a dustbin lid, burnt black on one side and powdered with a rusty dust on the other.

I was surprised, to put it mildly. What sort of lunatic processes poppy resin in the centre of a capital city, in the ruins of the British embassy? An Afghan lunatic, presumably.

"Salaam a-laykum," said a creaky old voice.

I found myself with my gun aimed between his eyes. He cackled at me, one hand grabbing at his turban as if he'd been caught in a sudden wind. My Arabic is shit, but I thought that I'd give it a go. "Ma-laykum salaam," I said, experimentally.

"American?" said the old man.

"Lord help us no," I said. "British."

He tottered over and placed a liver spotted hand on my shoulder. He obviously wasn't remotely impressed by my gun. "British - good," he said. "My greatgreatgrandfather kill your greatgreatgrandfather at Jalalabad." He cackled and drew an imaginary knife across his turkey gizzard of a neck.

"Apparently I am distantly related to the Elphinstones," I said, "through a bastard child of one of their chamber maids." As well as Clive of India, Rhodes of Africa and Lawrence of Arabia there might have been an Elphinstone of Afghanistan. Unfortunately he'd lost, and taken sixteen thousand British troops with him in an idiotic winter retreat from Kabul in 1842. He was the Tim Henman of British military history.

"Yes, yes," said the old man, revealing teeth that seen better days. He obviously didn't understand a word I was saying.

"Is this yours?" I said, gesturing at the miniature heroin factory.

"Yes, yes. You buy?" Either the daft old bastard had relatives in the police, or the Afghan authorities weren't that bothered. I'd read that the Middle Eastern attitude to heroin was - "Good stuff. Kills infidels in America whilst generating much needed income for us. Praise Allah and pass the ammunition."

A thought occurred to me. It was a plan, of sorts, for getting my acquisitions out of the country. It wasn't a very good plan, but hell - this was war.

"Do you have a lorry?" I mimed a steering wheel and a gear stick. "Brmmm brmmm brmmm."

That tickled him and he started giggling like a schoolgirl. "Brum brum," he tittered and drooled. "Hee hee hee." Apparently you don't have to be a member of Mensa to be a drug trafficker.

"I'll work for you," I said, pointing at myself and at him. "I ... work for ... you." I mimed driving again. "Peshawar. Me drive lorry to Peshawar."

He slapped his pantaloons as the tears ran down his cheeks.

"I have guns," I said, showing him my guns. "I have a disguise." I mimed pulling the chador across my face. "And I have a huge fortune in American dollars."

He draped a paternal arm across my shoulder. "You have husband?"

"No," I said. That sobered him and he patted my arm in a solicitous fashion.

"You'll soon find a husband," he said. "You are a brave and beautiful woman."

"Thank you," I said, blushing.

"Come. Come to my house."

I didn't have any other plans for the evening.

3 ... she who is tried

Some obscure Greek legends claim that Leda, after being raped by the swan, was deified as the goddess Nemesis, the due enactor of retribution.

I'd always wanted to see the Khyber Pass - maybe it was being force-fed Kipling as a child or maybe it was the memory of Kenneth Williams as the Khazi in Carry On Up The Khyber. In the good old days, the discerning opium grower had lived in the west of Pakistan. Then the Americans and Interpol had forced them over the border into Afghanistan provinces like Nangarhar. Now Nangarhar was under threat and production was shifting southwards into Helmand.

I wasn't going to be allowed to drive the truck after all. In fact, all that I was allowed to do was hide and keep quiet. Rukh had driven the route to Peshawar many times before, and had taken the precaution of having a relative, a customer or a willing recipient of bakšiš in place at each army check point. If all that failed he had a letter from his patron, a powerful man. Rukh was confident that the war would not be allowed to interfere with the important business of making money out of foreigners.

My overwhelming memory of the truck was that it was asthmatic, grey and covered with mud. Every gear change was a labour and every pot hole threatened to crack our heads against the roof of the driver's cabin. The view of the road ahead was obscured by a bizarre collection of beads, ornaments and improving verses from the Koran impregnated into grimy plastic coated pieces of card.

Rukh wasn't much of a conversationalist - his English vocabulary was as limited as my Pashto - but he did enjoy singing along to his cassette tape of tuneless Afghan popular songs. At the first sign of a checkpoint, he'd hide the cassette in the door panel, and then - after we were clear - he'd get it out again. I'd climb into an area behind the passenger seat that was shielded by a curtain and try not to think about the origins of the smells that wafted from the makeshift bed that was laid out there. The climate was chilly, but I could feel myself sweating nonetheless, and with each sweat I found myself imagining an additional layer of grime impregnating itself into my skin and clothing. I had one or two insect bites and it felt like I was getting a stye on my eyelid. I dreamt of a Pakistani hotel room with a ceiling fan and a private shower.

The view outside, when I wasn't cooped up, was not particularly inspiring. Imagine the dusty roads that one finds cut into a large quarry somewhere in South Wales, crawling with bizarre vehicles filled with rubble. Now extend the scene over hundreds of miles, and you have eastern Afghanistan.

And then, one of those events - like my airplane crash near the Village of Tokakeriby - that changed my life and still informs my view of life and of humans. Specifically - of men and of society, and my role in that society.

The seventh checkpoint wasn't an official one. Rukh turned a ghastly colour and his teeth chattered. It was some bandits.

To cut a short story even shorter, they shot him. He shouldn't have tried to stand up for me. Then they took it in turns to rape me. I could have forced them to shoot me too, but I had this idea that my life was worth it. By the time they'd finished I'd changed my mind. There was a brief respite where they made conversation - one of them even showed me photos of his family - and then they raped me again. They couldn't even be bothered to kill me - they just threw me and my belongings into a ditch and drove away with the lorry.

The moon came out, and I was lying with one cheek in the dust, trying not to move as that reminded me that I had a body. The moonlight glinted off Rukh's fishy eye as he lay gazing at the heavens. He didn't blink and neither did I. A scorpion came to look at me, but my expression must have unnerved it because it ran away.

A group of Taliban soldiers in a pickup truck found me. I cried when they gave me a cup of sweet cardamom tea and wrapped me in a blanket.

"Bag," I said, and they carefully brought me my rucksack, without even looking in it. I guess they thought I was entitled to a shred of privacy.

There was a town house and a woman doctor who spoke English. She washed me using a soft sponge and a little plastic bowl full of warm water. Then I slept.

Shari'a means "the way" and taliban means "the students", or so I've been told. The leader of this particular group of students of the way was called Mohammed Basmachi.

My first impression of him was that he looked more like a Turkish houri than a hard-bitten ex-mujahedin fighter. His clothing was brilliant white, with a gold trimming, and he wore an embroidered waistcoat. An elegant cap was perched on top of his carefully coiffured black ringlets, and he was wearing enough eye make up to pass for Marc Almond.

His hand, as he reached out as if to touch my bruised face, smelt of perfume and his fingernails were perfectly trimmed. He flinched as he looked into my eyes.

"How are you feeling?" he said, in unaccented English.

I couldn't think of a clever answer. "O.K.," I mumbled.

"I can only apologise for what has happened."

"It's ... it wasn't anything to do with you."

Basmachi bowed. "Nonetheless."

"What will happen to me now?"

"You were attempting to reach Peshawar," he said. "We will help you when you are recovered enough to travel."

"Thank you."

Basmachi poured me a glass of mint tea. "Why choose such a dangerous way to leave the country?"

I improved. "I'm not with a charity or an NGO, and there were no planes leaving Kabul due to the shelling. I've never been in a city that has fallen to an armed attack before. I just wanted to leave. I was afraid."

Basmachi steepled his fingers and made a movement with his eyebrows that reminded me of a shrug. "So you are a journalist?"

"Yes. Freelance."

"A war correspondent?"

"I'm actually an arts correspondent, interested in history."

Basmachi laughed. "History is happening all around us," he said, with a smile. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of me." His kohl-ringed eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Why?"

"I managed to get mentioned in the foreign press, or so I'm told. I said that when we took Bamiyan from the Northern Alliance that I'd destroy the idols of Buddha there."

I sipped my tea. "I remember reading somewhere that the Large Buddha had had his face sawn off and his arms and legs broken two centuries ago. By Persian iconoclasts. And that you can buy fragments of smaller Buddhas that were dynamited by the Soviets. In the market at Bamiyan."

Basmachi seemed amused. "You attempt to paint me as a philistine by giving these examples of ideologically-inspired vandalism."

I passed an hand over my face. "I'm not in a position to lecture people about how they treat their archaeological heritage. I was just making conversation."

"This country will be Islamic," said Basmachi. "Shari'a law will be applied. We can hang as many people as we like, but the world will not notice. However if we destroy some of those big lumps of sandstone, then they will notice us."

"Pour encourager les autres," I said.

"A nice phrase," said Basmachi, "but yes. If I thought that the statues of Buddha might come to life and help us reconstruct the country, then I might leave them alone. However from what I understand of the Buddha, he just watches and smiles."

"For evil to prosper, all good men need to do is stand by and do nothing."

"Buddhism ... in a nut shell. Is that the phrase?"

"There is a certain irony in hearing a Muslim criticising another religion given the care they take to defend their own."

"Life is full of irony," said Basmachi, "but the teachings of the Prophet cuts through all cynicism and gives us a clear path to follow."

"I'm pleased to hear that," I said. "Faith instead of real politic, justice instead of expediency. How refreshing."

"Now you mock me."

"I wasn't mocking you," I said. "I was just wondering what you were going to do to the men who raped me."

Basmachi sighed and looked at his hands folded on the desk in front of him. He got up and gazed out of the window at the street below.

"We have them already," he said, eventually. "They will be executed for theft and murder."

"And for rape?"

He didn't look at me. "There is no evidence," he said.

"I've been examined by your doctor and I can identify them," I said.

Basmachi came and sat down. "You are not going to like this," he said, "but under shari'a law rape can only be proved if four believers - four men - are prepared to testify that they witnessed the crime."

"Four men?"

"Yes."

Even assuming that the Taliban had medics to spare to carry out forensic tests - most of them were sowing up stomachs and fitting prosthetic limbs on a 24-hourly basis - it wouldn't have made any difference.

Maybe I should have been upset but in my altered mental state I found myself thinking - fair enough. Can't condemn a chap without proof.

"How are they to be executed?"

"We intent to shoot them in the football stadium. A public execution."

"What type of execution is reserved for convicted rapists?"

Basmachi shrugged. "They can be shot. Or stoned to death. I've known of an instance where a wall was toppled over onto a guilty man."

I sat up straight and cleared my throat. "Let me be part of the firing squad," I said.

"Impossible."

"Please?"

"I'm sorry. It would not be appropriate behaviour. Besides, in the absence of witnesses, you yourself could be open to a charge of zina."

"Zina?"

"Indecent behaviour. When a zina-bil-jabr case - a rape case - fails for lack of four male witnesses, the legal system has more than once concluded that the intercourse was therefore consensual, and consequently has charged rape victims with zina."

At this I felt as if someone had poured cold water over me, and so I gave up trying to argue. "God is good," I said, bitterly.

"Yes," said Basmachi, in a soft voice, his dark eyes soulful. "God is good, men are bad and your attackers will be executed. Does it matter why they die?"

I looked at him. He was so urbane, so educated, but so alien. It seemed that his policy of "pour encourager les autres" wasn't worth applying to the oppressors of women.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it," I said. "It's a girl thing."

It turned out that I was in Jalalabad, three hours drive from Peshawar. Jalalabad had fallen to the Taliban about a month before and since the majority of the populace were Pashtun, it had been a relatively peaceful handover. They put me up in the Spingar Hotel for a night or two to recover from my injuries. It was the spiffiest place in town, with a shower in the room and a television. Televisions were not usually included, but they were trying to make me, a Westerner, comfortable. There was a toilet as well, which was fortunate, since for some reason I was suffering from diarrhoea. Maybe it was the water, but I had a secret theory that having my nether regions stuffed with various assorted brands of spunk hadn't done me much good. The shower head was welded to the wall so I found myself doing various acrobatic feats to wash my lower torso. I spent a long time in that shower. The rest of the time I lay on my bed poking at my bruises and cuts to see if they still hurt. Something inside me felt different. I had an idea that somehow my brain was bleeding and that there was a little voice in there trying to scream.

Everybody that I met looked sympathetic or refused to meet my eyes. It made me furious but I smiled. Even the women behind the hotel reception desk patted my hand. They were distressed and upset at what had happened and I got the distinct impression that they felt that Afghan hospitality had been given a bad name. When I realised that everybody knew what had happened to me - I was a cause celebre - but at the same time none of them would agree to the men being charged, I felt a bitterness growing in my heart. The hospitality seemed two-faced, under the circumstances.

I got on to chatting terms with the hotel owners, Mr. and Mrs. Rashid.

"I want to buy a motorcycle," I said to them. Apparently there were a good number of twenty year old Russian military machines for sale. I burst out laughing when they brought one to show me. It had been painted grey once, with Russian insignia. Now it was a mess of rust and bare metal, as if someone how put it into a giant tumble dryer for a decade.

I gingerly climbed abroad - it was bearable - and did a short wheelie to impress the natives. There was laughter and applause. Only Mr. Rashid seemed disapproving. Mrs. Rashid explained that I was making more of an exhibition of myself than was thought seemly for a woman but that she, Mrs. Rashid, understood that Westerners were different and that she thought I was OK. She meant well, but I felt like telling her that everyone could fuck off and that I'd behave any damn way that I pleased.

They invited me to an evening meal. I had no idea what to give them as a gift so I bought some potted plants. I tried to remember to eat with my right hand, and to work out how much it was polite to eat, and whether or not I was supposed to drain my glass of tea or leave a little in the bottom. They both ate with me, perhaps to prove a point about how they were prepared to compromise with a Western guest. Underneath it all there seemed to be that pleading for forgiveness. The Taliban might have decided that they didn't care what the West thought of them, but Mr. and Mrs. Rashid had not.

Eventually I got to ask the question that I had been itching to ask for days.

"Where are the men being held and when are they to be executed?"

I had my passport, I had my visas, I'd packed my bags and I'd filled up on petrol. I was going to be leaving early.

I snuck out into the curfew just before dawn and headed to the police station. In more recent years I've broken into and out of high security compounds, but in 1996 I was relatively new to it. I guess the citizens of Jalalabad are fairly law abiding because the police station was half asleep.

I climbed up onto a nearby roof with my binoculars. There was a front room with policemen playing backgammon. Obviously backgammon hadn't been banned yet. Around the back were darkened windows with bars on them.

I considered doing a Terminator and running into the front of the station, slaughtering everybody who got in my way. Sadly I had only had my Browning pistols.

I watched for a couple of hours, devoid of a plan. Then, at a back door, I saw the glow of a cigarette.

There was a wall with broken glass and barbed wire and then I was within striking distance. It was a policeman and I knocked him out with a haymaker to the jaw before he had time to be surprised. I grabbed him as he bounced off the wall. Now I had keys and an open door.

He'd obviously been sitting at a desk outside the cells. There was a dirty electric bulb in the corridor but the cells were dark. I shone my Maglight into the cell through the door slot, and there was a man. He flung up his hands to shield his eyes and gave out an exclamation. It was the man who'd shown me his family photos.

I unlocked the door and then locked it behind me. "Shh!" I said, shining the torch onto my face.

A look of horror crossed his face and he started to cry out, but I stabbed him in the throat with stiffened fingers. He gurgled as I slammed his head against the wall, holding him by his hair. He smelt just as I remembered - a mixture of sweat, pheromones and fear.

I slammed his head against the wall a few times. Then I caved in his skull with the butt of my Maglight. It broke, the light went out and I was covered in blood.

I left. I crept back to the hotel and used the shower for the last time. I left money on the counter for Mr. and Mrs. Rashid. As the curfew lifted I kick-started my Russian motorcycle.

Over the border I stopped and looked back.

"Farewell, Afghanistan," I shouted. "Fuck you, and fuck your people. Fuck the Taliban. I'm never coming back."

I drove across Pakistan and got into India. I finally stopped at the Imperial Hotel, Calcutta. During the day I slept and in the evening I sat drinking generic lager in the hotel bar, gazing into space. My mind stopped. I became a thing.

I'd thought that nobody was looking for me. One evening I was sitting in a drunken stupor smoking a weird cigar. I'd found a copy of my Bigfoot book for sale in the local bookshop. What a small planet.

"What's a man got to do to get that kind of attention from you?" said a man's voice.

I looked up and recognised him, although from where I wasn't sure. I'd either slept with him or tried to kill him or both. He was an American.

"It's hard to say, exactly," I said in a mild voice, "but you seem to be doing fine." I could be rude to him when I knew what he wanted.

"Well - great," said the American. "Though truth is it ain't me that wants you."

"Oh?"

As he was speaking he unfolded a snazzy looking laptop computer on the table in front of me. "No. Ms. Jacqueline Natla does, from Natla Technologies. You know - creator of all things bright and beautiful." He chuckled at his own joke.

The screen flickered on and there, wearing a beige business jacket and a tight white top that showed the tops of her breasts, was Natla. Her hair was a brilliant blonde and her skin glowed with an expensive Californian tan.

"Seal it, Larson," she said. Her grasp of American colloquialisms was always flimsy.

"Ma'am," said Larson obediently.

Natla smiled at me with her big blue eyes and started throwing money up in the air. "Feast your eyes on this, Lara," she said, in a seductive voice. "How does that make your wallet rumble?"

I'd never heard the phrase "wallet rumble" before and wondered if it was suggestive. However, neither money nor sex had much appeal to me at that moment.

"I'm sorry," I said, starting to rise. "I only play for sport."

Natla smiled again, a big American smile with perfect teeth. "Then you'll like a big park," she said, and her face was replaced by a shot of the snow capped mountains near Arequipa. "Peru."

I was hooked.

Part Two: 2001

4 ... Jonah, peace be upon him

I'd tried quite hard to get over the loss of Winston and my husband. I'd travelled back to Tibet, to visit Tokakeriby and the monastery at Barkang. I'd done a certain amount of trekking and of trying to reach inner peace by sitting cross-legged on the floor dressed in orange robes, but although I'd taken some nice photos I didn't really feel much better. Maybe I should have shaved my head into a Tibetan mohican and then tried spinning prayer wheels for a few months, but I had a feeling I'd just end up feeling silly.

Now I was on the Indian Airways flight from New Delhi to London, and I was depressed. We were at thirty thousand feet and the only thing I had to look forward to a Bollywood classic, Tere Ghar Ke Saamne.

I ferreted around in my bag for something to read and discovered an unopened letter from Nooria Dubery. I'd recognised the writing and immediately hidden it away. I didn't really feel like being reminded of Afghanistan. On my return I'd mailed the field journal and the parchment to Nooria and then mentally taken the phone off the hook. I didn't want to see her.

I looked at the envelope and I was reminded of my habit, when injured, of poking my wounds to see if they still hurt. Maybe if I read the letter, I'd find the wound wasn't as painful as I was anticipating.

"Dear Lara," it began and then there was a load of waffle asking after my health, and why I hadn't been in contact for years. I felt guilty, and then annoyed, and I was tempted to rip up the letter before I read any further.

"The artefacts that you brought back from Kabul turned out to be extremely significant," said Nooria. "I am almost afraid of the reaction if my findings were released to the general public."

"Chicken or vegetarian?" said the Indian air hostess, breaking into my reverie.

"Chicken," I said.

She rummaged on her trolley. "We've run out of chicken," she said.

"I'll have a bottle of single malt then."

"Yes, Madam."

"I am assuming, perhaps wrongly, that you know little of the early life of the Prophet," the letter continued, "and so forgive me if I fill in some details for you."

I sighed and drank from the neck of the bottle. Did I really want to get into this, I wondered?

"One of the characters from the life of the Prophet is a Christian called Bahira. Bahira was a Nestorian monk that Muhammad was supposed to have met during a trip returning from Syria to Mecca. Bahira's Christian name was supposed to be Sergius or Georgius. The Muslim traditions say that Bahira recognized, through various signs, that Muhammad was a prophet. There are suggestions that Bahira stayed with Muhammad and taught him as alluded to in Sura xvi.105 of the Koran;. "Husain the commentator says on this passage that the Prophet was in the habit of going every evening to a Christian to hear the Taurat and Injil."

That made me sit up. There was only one empire that a Nestorian monk living in Syria in the late sixth century could have owe an affiliation to; Byzantium. Nestorius, the heretic Patriarch of Constantinople had been banished in 435 to Petra in Syria for preaching that Christ had two natures, one human and one divine.

"The field notebook describes an inscription which reads "hAlABI πROπheteS et SeRGIVS SA", found in the ruins at Borj-i-Abdulla. "Halabi" is a Greek name for the Prophet, whilst "Saint Sergius" could well refer to Bahira. They are described being located "tA MeRe teS ethRIB", or "in the region of Ethribou". Ethribou is another name for Mecca. There is no record that Bahira travelled to Mecca, so as you can see, there is already some confusion."

I was reminded, for some reason, of Lawrence of Arabia.

"As you know," Nooria continued, "there are at least two famous relics of the Prophet in Afghanistan - the Cloak and the Hair of Mohammed - both in mosques at Kandahar, and both 18th century gifts from the Emir of Bukhara in Russia. There is also the tomb of Hazrat Ali, the son-in-law of the Prophet, at Mazar-e-Sharif - the so-called "Tomb of the Exalted". When the original tomb was destroyed by Genghis Khan, many of the mementos of Hazrat Ali's life were hidden away. My point is that there may be a numbers of relics associated with the historical person of Mohammed lost or hidden in Afghanistan. My husband's field notes and the fragments of papyrus that you recovered seem to hint at such a lost artefact."

I was interrupted in my reading, however, by the passengers around me, who were whispering or sitting with their mouths open. I sat up in my seat and looked down the cabin. A man with a gun was standing next to one of the stewardesses.

There was a crackle and then the pilot's voice; "Ladies and gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed at this point," he had a very Indian accent, "but we have on board a number of members of the Kashmiri Pandit Islamic Brotherhood. They have requested that we make an unscheduled stop on our way to London after which they will ensure that we are refuelled and allowed to go on our way."

I carefully put the whiskey and Nooria's letter back into my bag. I had no weapons with me. I gazed at the nearest hijacker and his gun, and wondered what the chances of disarming him were.

I'd assumed that Kashmiri militants would demand to fly to Pakistan - not really a huge problem - but I was wrong.

"Our next stop will be in about 30 minutes and will be at the Afghanistani city of Kandahar."

There were gasps and cries of fear, and an elderly lady burst into tears. I could feel the blood draining from my face and my peripheral vision filled with swirling black and white squares. Afghanistan - where presumably I was wanted for murder.

The shocks weren't over, however. Moments later one of the hijackers came stumbling down the aisle from the back of the plane. He staggered from side to side, nearly falling onto people's laps. The whites of his eyes were showing and he was babbling in a high pitched way. Two Indian nuns who heard him exchanged shocked glances and crossed themselves, clutching at their rosary beads.

The man stumbled to the ground by me just as one of his colleagues came up to restrain him. The frightened man looked straight into my eyes and said something in what I presume was Hindi or Urdu.

"What is it?" I said, curiosity overcoming my caution. My mouth was dry but I had to do something. "What's happened?"

The second man banged the headrest of my seat with the flat of his hand.

"Mind your own business," he said. "Face forward and keep quiet."

"They come," said the first man. He was clawing at his head.

"I'm Dr. Farringdon," I said, holding up my open passport and trying to keep a tremor from my voice. I'd finally been forced to exchange my lovely gold and black British passport for a ghastly wine-coloured European one, and I was still using my late husband's name and so I'd given my title as "Dr." to make up for it. "Maybe I can help."

"You are a medical doctor?" said the second man.

"Let's just say I'm a psychologist," I said.

To be brief, I helped them to the back of the plane. I was out of my seat and a few steps from at least two guns.

"What's the matter with him?" I said to the second hijacker and the frightened air hostesses.

"Heat stroke," said the second hijacker.

"He thinks he is being pursued by demons," blurted out one of the hostesses.

"Punishment ..." said the panicking man. He was slapped across the face.

"Tass," said the other hijacker. "Be quiet. Be quiet all of you. He is talking nonsense."

As if to contradict this, the lights in the plane began to flicker. We all staggered as it lurched in the air. I nearly had the opportunity to grab a weapon but I was caught off guard; my legs were wobbling too much.

The seat belt and "no smoking" signs pinged on. I've never understood that. Surely if you're just about to crash you'd need a swift fag.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the pilot. "We seem to have hit a patch of bad weather."

The lights were off momentarily, and people screamed as a giant flash of lightning clapped next to the starboard wing of the 747. There was the sound of wind, audible even in the heavily insulated passenger cabin, and at the porthole next to me there was a rattle of hail. The sky outside was turning from a bright cloudscape into a Stygian, swirling night.

Middle Eastern men have a knack for melodrama. "They have found me," said the first hijacker. Then he started to howl.

There was another flash of thunder and one of the port engines was hit. The plane felt as if someone was holding it in their hands - it was like a shaken baby. Everybody standing, including myself, were thrown to the floor. It had the sort of out of control motion that one feels in a major earth tremor. The last time I'd been shut inside somewhere with nowhere to run and the earth rocking under my feet had been in the tunnels of Atlantis.

I scrambled into a vacant chair and pulled the howling man next to me, managing to fasten both of our seat belts.

"Why are they after you," I yelled.

The 747 chose that moment to start to fall. Everything tied down began to float. The oxygen masks emerged from their alcoves but didn't fall, whilst the luggage racks burst open. I tried not to see the burning port engine out of the window.

"Listen, listen," he said, scrabbling at me like a drowning man.

"I'm listening."

"The temple at Wandhama."

I'd never heard of it. "What about it?"

"We wanted the Hindus to move from around Jamma. We ..." he began to weep. "Woman and children shot ... we burnt their temple ..."

I considered reminding him that there was only one Allah and that Mohammed was His Prophet, and that vengeful Hindu demons didn't really register on the Islamic radar, but I had the suspicion that he was having a crisis of faith.

"What should we do?" I shouted. "What can I do to help?" And suddenly I was back in my teens, shouting exactly the same words to my school mates from the finishing school. I could feel my old self enveloping me - a nice, generous young girl, about as much use as a tortoise without its shell. I held onto myself tightly, murmuring some internal mantra about how now was the time to behave like a grown up.

The plane ceased to fall, and a sharp-edged makeup valise cracked me across the forehead. It must have knocked some sense back into me, for I noticed that the frightened hijacker had fainted. I grabbed his gun before the others noticed.

I leapt out of my seat and forward-rolled down the length of the aisle, trying not to land on any of the passangers sprawled on the floor. I came face to face with the second hijacker at the back of the plane.

"Halt," he said, aiming his weapon at me.

"If you think this plane can stand bullets flying around the cabin," I said, aiming my gun at him, "go ahead and shoot."

There were some screams and he fired at me. So much for logic.

The bullet grazed my forehead - I guess I must have shifted slightly, like a batsman facing a fast bowler. My finger jerked reflexively on the trigger and he had a nice ragged hole in his forehead. The stewardess behind him was lucky - the bullet must have missed her, even if his brains didn't.

I was expecting a sudden drop in cabin air pressure, but there was none. Neither bullet had penetrated the cabin walls.

I didn't have time for reflection - I dashed over to the rear cabin window and peered out. I'm no expert on meterology, and so I couldn't tell if the storm looked normal or not. There was comparatively clear air around us, but a hundred yards away, in all directions, was a pulsing wall of dirty black cloud. The interior wall of this area flickered with St. Elmo's fire. I was reminded of the submarine in "Fantastic Voyage", sailing through a kitsch version of the human brain. I wondered if, like Raquel Welch, I was about to be attacked by giant leucocytes.

Joking aside, I could not shake the impression that we were in the belly of an enormous beast.

I decided that I had to get to the pilot's cabin. There were two more hijackers in business class, but I caught them by surprise and broke their necks one after the other. The remaining hijacker was in with the pilots, but I persuaded him to give himself up by stoving the back of his head in with my pistol butt. OK - I admit it sounds a bit brutal but I was frightened, and there were hundreds of innocent passengers to consider.

"Are we air-worthy?" I asked the pilot.

"Barely," he said. "Even less so in this weather."

"Can we make an airfield? How far is it to Kandahar?"

"I estimate a quarter of an hour, but I've lost half my engines and most of my fuel. If we continue to be thrown about the sky I could run out just trying to keep us in the air."

I sighed. My nerves were jangling and I couldn't think straight, but the "enormous beast" illusion was still with me.

"Continue to try and contact Kandahar air traffic control and keep us as low as possible," I said. "I have an idea."

As I made my way back to the rear of the plane, people were clapping and cheering. I was slapped on the back, and kissed. Somehow all the adulation made me feel even more beastly.

"What's your name?" I said, holding the gun on the remaining hijacker.

"Abu Jahl," he said. He had gone through his terror to a place of numbed calm.

"The demons who pursue you - they will kill us all."

"Yes."

"If they have you, then the rest of us will be spared."

"I cannot."

"You mentioned women and children," I said, after a moment. "At Wandhama."

"Twenty nine died," said Abu Jahl, in an expressionless voice. "Twenty nine Hindus."

"There are also women and children on this plane."

At the back of the plane, I glanced at one of the television screens. It said ten thousand feet and falling - too high to breathe, but maybe not too high to open the door without crashing the plane.

I picked up the phone, keeping my gun trained on Abu Jahl.

"Prepare for a cabin depressurisation," I said to the pilot. "Warn the passangers to strap in and use their oxygen masks."

Abu Jahl cried out, but almost immediately his strange calm returned. His face was still covered with sweat, but it was old sweat. Cold and oily.

"I thought I was an instrument of Allah," he said.

"I pity you," I said. "I've done a few things in my time, but I've never deluded myself that I had God's permission." I pushed an image of myself at the vanguard of Arthur's army from my mind.

He handed me his wallet. "Can you give this to the embassy? I want my wife and children to know what has happened."

I was going to ask him how a father and husband could have carried out such atrocities, but I didn't. "I promise," I said.

We held a long exchanged look. His eyes were very wide, as if he was seeing things that he had never seen for the first time. He smiled weakly.

"The word Islam - it means "peace," he said, pulling on the handles that opened the cabin door.

"Maybe they should rename the religion "Jihad", I said. "Born in war, living in war and now, dying in war."

"God is good."

"If man is in God's image," I said, "then I somewhat doubt it."

He wrenched the door open and there was a howling gale. I'd expected him to be sucked out like an astronaut, but he wasn't.

"Allah'u akbar," he said again, and holding his nose like a kid jumping into a pool, he allowed himself to fall out of the doorway into the sky.

I struggled to look out. He was whirled away and then upwards. It was hard to see, but I half imagined that shapes came from the clouds and dismembered him. As I say, it was hard to see.

I couldn't shut the door, so I dashed back to my seat and retrieved my backpack. The moment that we docked the customs would be on board, checking passports.

The storm was subsiding, and our height was dropping. The pilot announced that we had been cleared for landing. By the open door I could see lights far below us, and roads like giant arteries, pulsing with life. The smell of the hot earth came to me through the night sky. I saw the ground speeding below us, and the shadow of the 747 like a giant crow in the returning moonlight. Then we were over the runway, which looked hard and deadly and too far down. There was a jolt and screeching sound as the undercarriage touched down and a mighty roaring of the the jet engines. We had almost reached the end of the runway as we slowed to a walk.

I let myself down by my fingertips and then fell, hitting the ground with a parachutist's tuck. I rolled and rolled, winded and grazed.

Welcome to Kandahar, I thought.

5. ... women

Kandahar used to have two famous inhabitants; Mullah Omar, leader of the Taliban and Osama Bin Laden, American bete noire, who lived in a newly built mansion on the outskirts of town. Kandahar was one of the most conservative cities in Afghanistan, and it was the local Pashtunwali version of the Shari'a that has been enforced over most of the country. I stole a chador as quickly as possible - nothing would be more useful to me if I was to escape undetected.

I had a tremendous sense of deja vu, deja vu underlaid with panic. Yet again I had to find a clandestine exit from Afghanistan, but now I no longer felt like a bright young thing, biffing foreigners and stealing their treasure. I felt like a frightened old woman who's wandered out without her spectacles.

I had no Afghan money and no visa. I joined a crowd of women waiting by the bus stop and managed to be allowed onto a bus into the city. To what extent they covered for me I'm unsure to this day. All the way I was sweating and imagining that every eye was upon me. I suspect it's a miracle that I discovered the Crusade of Rescue offices without being stopped.

I ducked into the building and leant against the door, shutting out the outside. Suddenly I knew what it felt like to be agoraphobic. I sat on the stone stairs leading to the first floor, and lit a shaky cigarette. The combination of deep breaths, nicotine and darkness were like a mantra.

"Hello?" said a voice with an Indian accent. I jumped half out of my skin.

"Hello," I said. I ground the cigarette under my toe.

"The office is closed."

"May I come up?"

A turbaned head appeared from a door way. The speaker was a Sikh. "The office is closed," he repeated.

I decided to walk up the stairs anyway. Five minutes of conversation revolving around the theme "the office is closed" was better than going back out into the street.

"My name is Lara Croft," I said, holding out my hand. I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly - he could have been anyone..

The Sikh looked at my hand. "And my name is Mr. Singh," he said.

"I guessed," I said.

He chuckled and pulled the end of his beard. "You seem tired," he said. "Would you like a cup of chai?"

"I can't think of anything nicer, Mr. Singh," I said.

"Call me Tarmur," he said. "It will lead to less general confusion."

I stepped into the offices of the Crusade of Rescue and there, seated at a typewriter as if it was most natural thing in the world, was a person that I remembered.

"This is Mem Nooria Naderi," said Tarmur.

Nooria and I, it seemed, were both travelling incognito. She had applied to the Afghanistan representatives in London for a visa under her maiden name and to her surprise they hadn't made any link to "Nooria Dubery".

"Where did you get that chador?" she said, after we had got over our initial discomfort and had said insincere things about being glad to see each other.

"I borrowed it," I said.

"A chador like that can cost three times the salary of a senior civil servant."

"Oh."

"Some poor professional woman, no doubt, who will now not be able to go out into the street without being punished by the Religious Police."

"I didn't know."

Nooria shook her head. "You'd be better off dressing in a Western way," she said. "Then you might not be mistaken for an Afghan woman."

So I told her about my rape and how I was probably wanted for murder.

Fortunately the tea was "tray tea" in which one can choose how much milk and sugar one adds oneself. I've never got used to the milky stuff they make in India.

"Cheers," said Tarmur, raising his glass.

Nooria and I both laughed despite ourselves

"So what brings you here?" I asked after a suitable peroid of silence.

"It's a strange story," said Nooria, smoothing her sleeves. "One of our reports was shown on the Oprah Winfrey chat show in America. The show set up an appeal for money for video cameras to be distributed amongst the members of R.A.W.A. here in Afghanistan, so that we could record the activities of the authorities."

"How odd," I said. "Why Afghanistan? You wouldn't have thought that the average American would know where it is."

"For some reason the Taliban have caught their imagination."

"What about Pakistan, and Saudi, and Iraq, and Iran, and all those other countries?"

"But remember - here in Afghanistan there's also Osama bin Laden. They hold him responsible for the bombing of an American warship called the Cole, and for a small explosion that he is said to have masterminded on one of the floors of the World Trade Centre. About seven years ago, I think."

"People are having fun blowing up Americans all over the planet," I said. "I don't really see why this particular bunch have attracted the attention of the great American public."

"Murder isn't fun," said Nooria, "even if it is Americans."

I could see that we'd have to agree to differ. "So you're here to arrange the distibution of these cameras?"

"And I have a problem. We were going to use this office as a way station in Kandahar, but the Christian missionaries that run it have all been arrested."

"They were preaching the Bible," said Tarmur. "This is against the law. Not even Sikhs are allowed to go around preaching willy-nilly."

"Sounds fair enough to me," I said.

Inevitably the conversation turned to the Taliban. I wondered if Afghans talked about the Taliban as much as we Brits talk about the weather. I wondered how long it would be before the word "Taliban" made it into the Oxford English Dictionary. Sooner than I realised, as it turned out.

"What people are not realising is that Afghanistan is a wild country," Tarmur was saying. "The Taliban are strong and they keep the peace. Before the Taliban I and my family were forced to leave for Quetta in Pakistan. We were afraid for our lives. Now it is safe for us to return to Kandahar. Many refugess have returned to Afghanistan since the Taliban took charge."

"That hardly excuses their treatment of women," said Nooria with an indulgant smile.

"Mem Nooria, I am only a Sikh. But it seems to be that women are the same in every Muslim country. It is no different in Pakistan, except perhaps for rich people who have been to University."

"I think that many educated Muslims find the Taliban embarrassing," said Nooria after a moment. "They are like backward country cousins who are giving Islam a bad name with their boorishness."

"It's a bit like as if a bunch of backwoodsmen from Texas seized control of the government in Washington," I observed, "and started banging on about flogging for graffiti writers, the televising of capital punishment, curfews for promiscous teenagers, the demonic influence of gangsta rap and the superior healing power of prayer. The President wouldn't be able to appear on T.V. without quoting from the Bible. Before long they'd be sending terrorists to nearby godless Communist countries in some sort of unofficial holy war, determined to unite the world under their interpretation of Christianity."

I had a vision in my mind's eye of the film "1984", but instead of the Two Minute Hate being used to scream abuse at the bearded face of Goldstein - Big Brother's arch enemy - the bearded face that the population of Air Strip One was encouraged to detest was that of an Islamic cleric.

"I cannot see this," said Tarmur. "America is the land of the free."

"At least the Taliban are not like Saddam Hussein," said Nooria. She sighed."They have not commited genocide. They have not invaded any neighbouring countries. They are not developing biological weapons."

We changed the subject.

"It's difficult to see how you are going to get out of the country. Not even the NGO planes will take you without an appropriate exit visa. You can hardly go to the Police Station and apply for another."

"Is there nowhere in town I can buy an entry visa for Pakistan?"

"There is a Pakistani embassy in Kandahar New Town. You may be able to get through the regulations with payment of an appropriate fine to one of the civil servants."

"Pakistan is only 200 kilometers away," said Tarmur. "In a fast car you could be at the border in two hours."

"She'd never make it past the checkpoints."

"Maybe if she was on foot."

"We have time to decide," said Nooria. "A Pakistani visa will take at least two days to process even after the payment of a surcharge."

"Can I stay here?"

"Oh no," said Tarmur. "If they find you with a single man, you will be arrested."

"You can come with me," said Nooria. "You might find it interesting."

On the street we passed a number of women seated by the side of the road. Some of them, dressed in heavy burqas, resembled full bin bags left out for the dustmen. Some appeared to have fallen sideways and lay with their eye near to the earth, vacantly watching the ants or the feet of passers by.

"They have no husbands," said Nooria. "Maybe the husband is dead. They cannot work. They have to rely on the charity of others. I want you to keep a look out for me." She produced her video camera.

I glanced nervously up and down the street, my veil clamped tightly over my nose with my hand. I wished that I had my Uzis with me, although the state I was in I'd probably have shot any bearded man wearing a black turban.

One of the beggars had a small child with her. The child was very quiet and she looked at me without smiling. Her head was uncovered, revealing a mass of greasy, dusty curls. Flies were clustered near her mouth but she couldn't be bothered to brush them away. I tried to imagine myself in her position in her age, but it was impossible. It was as if I was looking at a foreign species, hardly human at all. Untermenschen.

Nooria was talking quietly to the woman and handing her some dollars. I was expecting the woman to smile, or something, but she just remained expressionless despite her murmured words of thanks. "Seeing-eye dog" collection boxes for the blind have more expression. Maybe she hated us for not being her.

"She was a surgeon," said Nooria, as we walked away. "She was sacked for saving a man's life. She's only supposed to operate on women."

I was surprised. "What - she went to University?"

"She was a professional."

A little further on a Datsun truck drove slowly past us. It was full of men. I kept my head down but suddenly there was a tremendous blow across my back. I cried out and fell.

Nooria was helping me to my feet. One of the men jumped down and started to whip her around the legs with a stick. I received another couple of truncheon blows across my back.

We said nothing, and eventually they drove away.

I sat down by the road, shaking with emotion. "What was that all about?"

"The chador that you stole is too short for you," said Nooria, putting a tentative hand on my shoulder.

I looked down. One inch of ankle was showing.

We managed to bribe an official at the Pakistani Embassy. Nooria gave him what was - to him - a small fortune but to me wasn't enough to buy a decent top. It would be ready the day after tomorrow - enshallah - although the likelihood of God taking bakšiš for stamping passwords seemed rather slim.

There wasn't a lot to do in Nooria's friend's house. Football, chess and kite flying were banned, as was listening to music. Not that the local radio station played any.

By the next afternoon I was ready to escape. When they weren't looking I donned my chador and snuck out. It was like being a teenager breaking curfew all over again.

"And if anybody tries hitting me with anything again," I said to myself, "I'm fucking kicking their arses to the Khyber Pass and back."

6. ... the steps

About two miles west of Kandahar, high above the plains on a rocky outcrop is a cave carved out of the sheer mountain cliffs. Forty steps known as the Chihl Zina lead to this chamber which is - on the face of it - a shrine to the Mogul Emperor Babur. It was here that my instincts suggested that I looked for something out of the ordinary. The Shrines of the Cloak and of the Hair were not really the sort of place that one would wish to hide an object that might un-nerve the faithful. My problem was that spread around the foot of the Forty Steps was the Old City of Kandahar, destroyed by the Persians in the 18th century, and now a lethal minefield.

To make things worse, I was approaching as the sun as setting. Although I was veiled from head to foot, it wouldn't prevent me from being picked up for breaking a curfew, and the chador wasn't really an outfit in which one can be particularly gymnastic. I wandered along the deserted road as casually as I could manage and when I thought the coast was clear I clipped a hole through a mangy stretch of barbed wire and ducked into the ruins.

UXO, or unexploded ordnance, comes in all shapes and sizes. The places where one might typically find such a thing, according to the book, include "unused footpaths, tracks and short-cuts, alongside walls, especially those of damaged buildings, in the doorways and room corners of deserted houses, in low-lying or hidden areas of cover." If you've ever seen the ruins of an abandoned city, then you'll realise what the chances of stepping on some UXO are.

I decided that I was going to assume that there were no mines on top of large lumps of rock, like columns, for example. I gingerly hoisted myself up onto a wall and regarded the distance between myself and the Forty Steps as if it was a giant puzzle. The light was fading fast, but I could see possible routes. Some looked as if they might make it all the way, whilst others looked as if they came to a dead end - a gap too big to leap, a wall too narrow to walk along. I wished that I had a Polaroid camera with me - at least when I was in the middle of the maze, I'd have been able to use the view from the edge. I was going to have to rely on memory.

The sand flies and the mosquitoes were beginning to home in on me, and so I decided to move. I took a step backwards on the wall and, hitching up my robes, did a running jump. The wall I landed on was covered with loose pebbles which made me skid. I fell onto my back, but managed to push myself up so that I was sitting astride the brickwork. There was a pattering from the bushes to one side as a rain of dislodged debris hit it. I held my breath for an explosion, but there was none.

"Easy girl," I said to myself. "Dangerous gymnastics in a booby-trapped environment - busman's holiday."

One of the "telltale signs" of a minefield, according to the UNOCHA Mine Clearance Programme, is "skeletons and dead animals". I dutifully examined the area around my next target, a virtually vertical marble column. No fur-lined splat marks, as far as I could see.

I stood on my wall and tried to work out how to land on the top on a column. Should I land feet first? Should I attempt a dive ending in a hand stand? Should I just jump wildly and land on my stomach?

In the end I attempted the hand stand and ended up with the belly flop. My stomach muscles are hard, but they're not as hard as stone. I lay there with the wind knocked out of me, like a fish on a spear. I was just beginning to get my breath back when the column creaked and toppled over. I was flung onto the ground, rolling a few feet.

For a while I lay quite still, listening, and resisting the temptation to straighten my limbs. I was lying in a patch of deep shadow - the sun was almost at the horizon. I realised that I was going to have to take a risk, and so I switched on my Maglite torch.

I was lying partly on one side. I played the light beam up and down my body, looking for anything that seemed suspicious. I'm pretty limber, but there was an area behind my shoulder blades that I couldn't see however much I craned my neck. I gave my boots one more check and caught a glint. It was a thin metal wire, strung a couple of inches above the ground and almost rusted away. If I'd rolled one more roll I'd have hit it.

I carefully drew my legs in until I was in a crouch, standing in an area twelve inches by twelve that I was sure was safe. Turning slowly I looked at the blind spot that had been behind my back. Lying half hidden was what looked like a plastic toy, something you'd find in a Lego kit. It resembled a winged lipstick, or a green, stylised bird. I recognised it as a Soviet-made butterfly mine, dropped from a helicopter. Nicknamed "Green Parrots", the plastic makes them hard to spot with a metal detector. Many children around the world have spotted Green Parrots, or their Western equivalents. It's usually the last toy they ever play with. I'm no soldier, and I have little idea about concepts of honour or chivalry, but even I find it hard to spot the glory amongst all those young corpses. But what do I know?

I made my way to the place that I had originally been aiming for, using the torch. I pulled myself up very tactfully, away from the ground.

I could see I was nearly there when I jumped onto a rock and there was an explosion. So much for my theory about stepping stones. The rock lifted vertically under my feet, and pieces of stone shrapnel flew all around me. I fell awkwardly into the small crater left by the mine and then, panicking, scrambled to the foot of the Forty Steps.

I was unscathed, as far as I could tell. It was little short of a miracle. However, I'd advertised my presence very effectively. I decided I'd worry about getting out of there later. I started up the Steps in the darkness, trying not to think about more trip wires.

"I wish that I could tell precisely what you might look for and where to look," Nooria's letter had said. "My husband used to hint at some object that would be of significance, but he never confided in me directly and his notebook contains nothing more than scraps and hints that seem to be written more as an aide de memoire than a guide to an outsider. I cannot tell if he actually found something and left it hidden, or if he knew where to look, but had never had the opportunity to return to Afghanistan."

She had made the case for searching the Shrines of the Hair and the Cloak - "maybe it is possible that the Emir of Bukhara gave the Shah more than just the two relics" - but I was damned if I was going to raid some of the most sacred sites of Islam in the town where the Taliban had its central government.

"Another place - maybe not so promising - is the Zor Shah, the ancient capital of Afghanistan. The monument to Babur at the top of the Chihl Zina may provide a clue. Timurid miniatures are amongst the finest examples of Islamic figurative art, and therefore perhaps Babur would not have been unsympathetic to iconography. However I myself have examined the remains of Babur's tomb in Kabul and there is nothing left of significance to our quest."

At the top of the Steps was the cave, its entrance flanked by two stone Sassanian lions. The lions were cute - chunky and fierce in a kittenish sort of way, with their mouths open in a silent roar. I entered the cave gingerly, to find that it was hardly a cave at all. There was an Arabic inscription and that was it. I sat down and scanned through the letter again.

"With respect to the Chihl Zina, my husband only makes one direct reference. He has quoted the inscription to Babur that is found inside the chamber, and then next to that he has written 'Vulg Heb 11:33-4, obturaverunt ora leonum extinxerunt impetum ignis effugerunt aciem gladii'."

I translated this gnomic quotation as "He stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword." What on earth a quote from the Latin version of the Bible had to do with anything I wasn't sure. Maybe a Christian agent in a Muslim land would use it as a sort of code book - I'd guess that if one said to a fellow operative "Hebrews eleven thirty three four", it would be as opaque to your average Afghan as a transmission using the Enigma machine. I had no idea where Professor Dubery had unearthed that particular quotation, but the mention of "lions" cheered me up considerably.

I went outside and looked at the statues again. I tried sticking my finger in their mouths, but it didn't tell me much. Then, for some reason, I sniffed at then. There was a smell. At first I thought it was the sort of smell that one associates with old earth and rock, but then I remembered where I had smelt it before. Bunsen burners at school. It was some sort of marsh gas or methane.

I fished out my Zippo and tried lighting the gas. Each time there was a brief purple flame which disappeared very slowly down into the throats of the statues, like a gently falling leaf. There was no more heat than that from a lit Christmas pudding.

After a while I got tired of this party trick and went back inside the cave. The cave had been carved out of the rock and the inscription had been carved out of the rock and there were no seams, doorways, cracks, trapdoors or secret levers in the form of hinged torch brackets. It was a very very boring cave indeed.

"I've traipsed my way across some of the most dangerous territory in the world for this," I said to the rock. There wasn't even an interesting echo.

The quote, which was looking increasing irrelevant, said "He stopped the mouths of lions." I made a mud and pebble patty using water from my bottle, and bunged up the mouth of one of the lion statues. When I went to bung up the second statue, I could hear something. I put my ear to the mouth and I could hear air moving. I moistened my finger and held it in the air stream - air was being sucked into the statue.

I considered this phenomenon. I knew from long experience that rushing blindly into situations wasn't always the best way.

Presumably the lighted marsh gas used up oxygen, I thought. I had an image of a stone pipe filled with marsh water, and above the surface, burning marsh gas. If I interrupted the air flow to the flames, a temporary vacuum would result. Maybe the water would rise in the pipe a tiny amount, I thought. Maybe that would cause something else to happen - some there was some sort of hydraulic switch.

"Might as well give it a go," I said. I stopped up the second mouth.

I went back inside the cave, but nothing was happening there. I got out my night binoculars and started scanning the cliffs on each side of the Forty Steps. Then I saw another cave mouth some distance away, with the flickering of flames inside it. It hadn't been there when I'd climbed up.

There were no convenient steps carved up to the second cave. I had to shed my robes, and to tie my boots around my neck by their shoe laces. One of the things I'd always done, when I was a little girl on holiday in Ireland, was "bouldering" in bare feet. "If you have tough enough soles," I'd been wont to say back in the 80s, "and you don't mind losing the odd toenail, you don't need EBs." The Afghan cliff had the advantage that it wasn't dripping wet, but it was as cold as an ice face. I knew I'd have to keep moving. Climbing a face that was E6 in most places, in the dark and without a safety rope or karabiners was quite entertaining. I'd done Mont Blanc and El Capitan, but this was more ethnic. At least if I fell off I'd probably land on a mine.

Inside the second cave was a circular basin of water whose surface was dancing with brandy snap flames. Above the flames was a giant metal vase, and from it was coming a loud hissing - steam. There was one other thing - a small stone door, shut. I tired pushing at it, but it was housed in vertical runners. I tried dragging it downwards and provoked a cloud of scalding steam from around the door frame, but I couldn't budge it.

"More haste, less speed," I said.

The next line of the Bible quotation was, of course, "he quenched the violence of fire." There was even a hinged stone lid for the fire basin. I pulled it across the surface of the water and the fire was snuffed out.

After about five minutes, the giant metal vase began to cool and the sound of hissing disappeared. The stone door way began to drop as the steam pressure that had been holding it shut diminished.

What sort of a mind designs a safe that is always open, I wondered? If I'd climbed up here first of all, I'd have been able to walk straight in. But then, maybe the cave was invisible without the fire. It was a complicated way of thinking - security based on a double bluff. Typical of an undercover agent. Typical of Byzantium.

I stepped through the doorway and then I realised how impenetrable the place really was. Before me there was a deep crevasse in the rock, falling down to a stream far below. I shone my torch downwards and made out, on the banks of the stream, many stone stalagmites, their tips capped by bronze spikes. One slip and it was girl shish kebab.

I scanned around, looking for some sort of bridge to the other side and something glinted in the torch light. It was what looked like the blade of a scimitar, sharp edge upwards, over thirty feet long. The base and the tip were embedded in bosses protruding from the crevasse walls. It was the most stupendous piece of medieval engineering I'd ever seen. So many claims are made for the British Industrial Revolution, and how it was the first era to discover how to make giant pieces of metal, and how to harness the power of steam. This place illustrated very well that, in fact, the human race had forgotten more than it knew. Whoever had built it - maybe a consortium of Byzantine and Arabic engineers - their skill easily rivalled that of Isembard Kingdom Brunel.

Even the most skilled tightrope walker would have been unable to walk across the edge of that blade and the distance was too far to jump. I looked upwards for a convenient place to lodge a grappling hook and a rope, but there was nothing. I reached down to touch the edge of the blade, wondering if I could slide across it like a zip line, spanning the edge with a metal chain held in both hands. However the blade, being the curved blade of a scimitar, rose in the central of the span. Not even I could slide uphill.

"He escaped the edge of the sword," said the quote, but that wasn't at all helpful. The problem was obvious, the solution occult.

Lying on my stomach, I examined the circular boss that the hilt of the giant blade was embedded in. It too was made of metal and covered in a thin layer of grease. I lifted some of the grease to my nose - it smelt fishy. Lord knows how the grease had managed to survive the centuries without evaporating. Maybe the darkness and dampness of the cave had preserved it. However the point was - where there was grease, there were moving parts. If the boss was designed to move in some way, then so too was the scimitar bridge. All I had to do was deduce the mechanism.

I won't bore you. To cut a long story short, I went back out into the cave and relit the fire in the basin. The steam-driven door sealed itself behind me, and the scimitar bridge revolved through ninety degrees, converting itself from a thin edge to a broad blade that I could walk across. The way forward was clear, the way back was sealed.

There was what had once been a treasury. A large studded door lay on the floor, ripped from its hinges. This was fortunate for me, as I didn't have the key. Inside the room were shelves, all empty. In the middle of the floor was a skeleton with the square punctate mark of a mace wound punched through the dome of its skull. Whether the dead man had been a robber or a guard I couldn't say. Scattered around were many wooden trunks. They were marked with Arabic symbols. I wish that I'd made a note of them, or could remember what they looked like. It would be interesting to know whose wealth had been stored there. Maybe the wages of an Islamic army of jihad, or the savings of a merchant fled from Mecca - I, with my cynical eye, could speculate endlessly. Maybe you should go back there yourself and discover the truth.

I searched through eight trunks and in the eighth I found a package. It had obviously been hidden in the treasury long after the treasury had been looted, by person or persons unknown. The package was made of leather and tied with string. I opened it up and there in my hands was a wooden Byzantine painting.

The icon showed two figures, both haloed. One was tonsured and standing, and seemed to be delivering some kind of sermon. The second wore a turban and had a black beard. He was listening to the first figure.The icon had the caption from the scrap of manuscript that I had found five years earlier.

I really don't know to this day is the icon was a fake or an early piece of Christian propaganda, but the implication was clear. The Nestorian cleric Sergius had travelled from Byzantine territory into Arabia, and had given Mohammed the Christian instruction that the illiterate Mohammed had later regurgitated as the sayings that became the Koran. Even the dislike of figurative art that the Iconoclastic monk - immortalised in Islamic hagiography as Bahira - had brought with him, was reproduced in the teachings of the new religious leader. The implication was that Sergius hadn't recognised the inherent holiness of Mohammed, as is written in the Koran - he'd created Mohammed as a rebel leader, part of the Byzantine version of the Great Game. In the following years the remains of the Persian empire, ancient enemy of Byzantium, had fallen to the armies of the new religion Sergius had unwittingly created - mission accomplished. It was a pity that in a later era the Islamic warriors had turned - Frankenstein like - on their creator. Fight an imperial war by proxy and before you know it, it turns around and bites you in the ass as the Americans might say, and they should know.

No wonder they'd hidden the icon in the deepest darkest cave they could find. It was blasphemous. I wondered what had stopped them from destroying it completely. Maybe they're weren't sure. After all - if there was any chance that it was real, they'd have been destroying a genuine icon of the Prophet. It was too hot to handle. It had been locked away for a time when Islam felt less insecure about itself..

I had solved my mystery and now all I wanted to do was to get out of Afghanistan as rapidly as possible. I waited and watched at the mouth of the caverns. Eventually either the marsh gas ran out, or the mud that I had used to block the mouths of the lions gave way. The stone door reopened and I left, the icon in my backpack.

7 ... the made plain

Sometimes one does things in life and looking back one can't understand it, despite many hours thought. Why did I pick that fight? Why didn't I say something? Why did I decide to turn left instead of right? Why did I deliberately do nothing? To this day I don't know why I didn't tell Nooria about the icon. I was always just about to do it, but some sort of inertia or reluctance deep in my mind prevented me. I find myself fingering the icon in my backpack, with it lying half exposed through the top flap. If she saw it, then fine - I'd tell her. If she didn't - I wouldn't. It was all down to fate. She'd put me on the track to finding it but I felt that it was mine and mine alone, at least for a while.

She'd decided to come with me to Quetta, with Tarmur to show us the way. She said she wanted to video the refugees and get the film to a safe place. We spent the first day walking, and the next squeezed into a van that took us past more dead fields, dying animals, dying villages. Southern Afghanistan is a desert with nothingness piled upon nothingness.

Finally we topped a rise that Tarmur told us overlooked the border post - nearly there, I thought.

Some men were standing looking ahead - hollow men covered in dust and dressed in torn clothes and wool caps. They were farmers and they had been travelling from farms killed by the drought. First they'd run out of money and then they'd run out of food.

A moment later we reached them and we could see what had stopped them on the rise. Ahead was a solid metal gate blocking most of the roadway. There were hundreds of people just like our farmers - without proper documents, without money for bribes, without any possessions other than their filthy clothes - who were surging toward the small opening, trying to push their way through.

Tarmur was dumb-struck. "Where did all these people come from?"

I took my binoculars from my back pack. I could see Pakistani border guards who are waiting with wooden sticks; they had instructions not to let undocumented refugees through. I couldn't hear the sound of people being hit, but I could see them flinching or running back into the melee.

Nooria was wondering whether she could film. "Last year," she said, "one hundred and fifty people - most of them children and women - froze to death after having arrived in the refugee camp just over the border there."

"That's ridiculous," I said.

"In some villages, you come across children - I'm sorry to use this word - but they're acting like animals. They want food. That's it. That's all their life is. The search for food."

Apparently there were about fourteen thousand families settled in the vicinity of Kandahar and living in Neanderthal conditions. Their tents were scraps of cloth supported by dead willow branches. There was no drinkable water, and no medical help. There was no food and no latrines. In the winter they died faster. People watch Schindler's List and weep, but a few thousand miles away from the cinema there are people who are no better off than the prisoners of Auschwitz, and they are dying right now.

Nooria pointed out an encampment to me. I hadn't realised it was an encampment - I'd mistaken it for a refuge tip. She took me from tent to tent.

"I used to beg," said one woman. She was a widow with eight children. She started to cry. "Now I can't even beg."

"I feel cold, all the time," said the woman in the next tent. She'd come here two months ago, and given birth to twins. She was feeding them spoonfuls of dirty water because she is too weak to produce milk. One infant was wrapped in a green cloth, the other in brown. "I haven't named them yet," she said.

In the third tent was a man who thought that he was going to die. "Can't you see?" he said, showing how thin he was. "Isn't the hunger killing me?" His wife, who was both deaf and mute, looked at us with a stunned expression. The man showed us what he owned in the world - some blankets and a pot. "I want to leave this place," he said. "How do I go from here?"

I reflected that he'd better not try coming to Britain, even if he could raise the air fare. When we repatriated him he'd end up in debt to some local mafia and back where he started. At least now he was able to quietly die in peace.

"It seemed ironic that the best we can offer these people is weapons and warfare," I remarked to Nooria as we were walking away from the camp. "A drink of clean water would be so much more useful. I've faced the undead, and various mythological monsters, but I've never had to look after a child dying from dysentery."

"Some people would claim that all this suffering is God's will," she said, after a moment. "The sad thing is that it's not God's will, but man's."

We passed the time. We deduced that the gate below closed at about five, and were hoping that the crowds of document-less people would disperse with the sunset. Then we'd go down with our passports and our valid Pakistani visas and our American dollars and cross the border.

Tarmur told us a story about a Soviet helicopter that had been found on the dried up bed of a lake, the crew's skeletons still manning the weapons that they had been attacking the population with fifteen years earlier.

"At least soon when the Taliban defeat General Dostum," he said, "we will finally have peace in Afghanistan. No more Russians, no more British and no more Americans. No offence meant to you, Mem Lara."

"Don't you worry about it," I said. "The Russians, the Americans and the British aren't great friends of mine either." There was a set of customs and military buildings below us and my attention was drawn by what looked like the blink of binoculars. Nooria, who was standing silhouetted against the skyline, was peering the that direction with her hand shielding her eyes.

"Is somebody watching us?" I asked.

"Yes," said Nooria. "They watch everybody."

"How are we going to avoid being searched when we get there?"

"Repack your bag so that your underwear is on the top, followed by your clothing," said Nooria. "Since we have a valid exit visa and cash, we should be lucky. The Taliban border guards don't like searching through female knickers."

"What about your camera?"

"They'd have to body search me, and I don't think that they will."

It all sounded a bit hit or miss to me, but I surreptitiously rearranged my backpack so that the icon was lying flat on the bottom. Again I was tempted to tell Nooria but I decided she'd be safer not knowing in the event it was found.

Then I saw a Datsun two-door pickup drive around from behind the buildings and start up the hill towards us, spewing up dust.

"They're coming," I said.

"We have to face them sometime," said Nooria. "It's better not to behave in a guilty way."

The vehicle drew up beside us. There were three young men with Kalashikovs. We were taken into custody.

Nooria and I were shown into the presence of a grizzled Taliban commander. His face was scarred and he had a patch over one eye. His hair was prematurely greyed and one of his legs had been replaced by a wooden peg leg. He was a shoe in for Long John Silver.

"It is good to see you again Lara," he said.

I looked at him closely and then I realised that it was Mohammed Basmachi. My shock must have shown on my face; the last time that I'd seen him he'd been a beautiful young man.

Basmachi chuckled and indicated chairs. "Time has been kinder to you than it has been to me," he said. "May I offer you some tea?"

"Am I under arrest?" I said.

"Of course not, old girl," said a voice behind me. My heart leapt. I knew where I'd heard that voice before. After a frenzied racking of my brains, I remembered the person that had saved me five years earlier in the cellar of Kabul Museum. I turned around and there was the Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office. He was dressed in a natty tropical suit and was warming his hands at a brazier in the corner of the room.

"You!" I said. I laughed with great weariness. "All these years and I never recognised the voice."

"It's sometimes difficult to recognise someone out of context," he said.

I didn't say anything for a while. "How did you know I was here?"

"I saw the passenger manifest from the highjacked aircraft. It's part of my brief to keep an eye on your movements. If it wasn't for our close history, I wouldn't have made the link between a 'Lara Farringdon' and yourself. Contacted our people here and got them to delay you waiting for a visa you didn't need. Barely made it here on time myself as a matter of fact."

And so Nooria, Basmachi, the Permanent Under Secretary and I sat in a dusty office on the edge of the Pakistani Wild West and drank mint tea.

"If I can explain a little," said the Permanent Under Secretary. Basmachi nodded. "I represent the British Government, of course, whilst Nooria here represents the American Security Services."

"What?" I said.

"I was recruited whilst I was at University," said Nooria. "I've known these two for years - I knew them when I sought you out at that conference in 1996."

"I had no idea."

"I'm pleased to hear it."

"Nooria and I first met at a madrassa in Pakistan," said Basmachi. "I was a young theology student. She offered us guns and money to establish a strong government here in Afghanistan."

"All this civil war was bad for business," said the Permanent Under Secretary. "We wanted to build an oil pipeline from Turkmenistan to Pakistan, and the Taliban initially agreed."

"However they also had Osama bin Laden to contend with," said Basmachi. "A powerful friend of Mullah Omar."

"Bin Laden is a Saudi and he wanted Saudi law to be applied here in Afghanistan," said Nooria. "He was opposed to any cooperation with the West."

The Permanent Under Secretary leaned forward conspiratorially. "Incidentally, all of the law that is carried out here in Afghanistan and which has so annoyed the Western media is already in force in Saudi Arabia - public executions, the lot," he said. "Ironic, really. With no oil, Afghanistan can't buy the right to run an oppressive regime in peace."

"I'd better not meet you in a dark alley in London any day soon," I said.

"I'd like to say," said Nooria, looking at the Permanent Under Secretary with a flash of anger, "that part of my ... fee ... for working with these people is to be allowed to champion the rights of Islamic women. I am opposed to any attempts to establish a Saudi-style regime here in Afghanistan."

I gave her a look of contempt and she blushed.

"And the moderate members of the Taliban support you," said Basmachi, in a conciliatory voice.

"Quite," said the Permanent Under Secretary. "At any rate, we all struck a deal. In exchange for holding bin Laden under virtual house arrest we promised to help the Afghans to find a legendary and dangerous object that has been a well kept secret amongst the local Pashtun population for centuries."

I started to laugh again, even more bitterly. How many times had I found myself in this position before, I wondered? Led down the garden path and sold a patsy.

"Does she have it?" asked Basmachi.

"She does," said Nooria.She avoided my eyes.

"I told you that she'd find it eventually," said the Permanent Under Secretary. "She's an expert truffle hound."

He and Basmachi looked at me like kids promised a birthday treat.

Part of my "fee" - as Nooria so daintily put it - was to be allowed to return to England without being tried for murder. Basmachi told me that he approved of the way that I had killed my rapist. I wasn't sure that I felt good about his support.

They burned the icon on the brazier in Basmachi's office. Nooria looked sad, Basmachi looked relieved and the Permanent Under Secretary looked at his watch.

Then, a few weeks after I'd returned to England, pictures of the icon began to crop up on the Internet. Nooria had taken it from my backpack and videoed it. She'd obviously decided to retire from the Security Services, but soon afterwards she died of a brain haemorrhage. The icon became famous as the "Dubery Fake", and eminent scholars deduced from the grainy pictures that it was a piece of thirteenth century Christian propaganda. I tried to join the debate, describing where I'd found it and why I thought it was real. Soon afterwards the police searched the Croft Mansion with a warrant, and - amongst other things - the papers supporting my case disappeared.

Nevertheless - thanks to Nooria and myself - the deal between the Permanent Under Secretary and Basmachi must have been rendered null and void. The pipeline wasn't built, and bin Laden wasn't sidelined.

It was a strange and changeable autumn. Since the burning of my cows and sheep during the Foot and Mouth epidemic, the fields around Croft Mansion were empty and rubbish strewn. It felt as if one age was passing away and a new one beginning, a bright new 21st century age, filled equally with promise and terror.

I pottered around the kitchen. There was a thin layer of dust on some of the pots and pans. I'd always been able to see my face in one particular copper saucepan, but now it was dull and tarnished.

I ferreted around in the cupboard for a mug, and found Winston's, with its faded Union Jack. I couldn't really work the range and had bought myself a kettle, a microwave and a toaster from the local superstore. I made myself beans on toast and some strong tea, and took it upstairs on a tray.

The house was so quiet that I could hear the ticking of the clock on my bedside table from the other side of the house. I put the television on, and started to eat.

There was a disaster film on the BBC, shot in a sort of documentary verité style. A passenger plane was about to crash into the World Trade Centre, which was on fire. The shadow of the giant wings brushed across the upturned face of innocent Liberty. By the end of the movie she would have been turned into a goddess of vengeance, no doubt.

"I've seen that movie before," I said, and switched it off.

The wind creaked the beams in the attic, and twigs battered against the fading window panes.

There was a storm on the way.

Author's note: To write this story, I plundered an article in the Washington Post called "Invisible Journeys" by David Finkel, and two books - "Taliban" by Ahmed Rashid and "Afghanistan", edited by Edward Girardet and Jonathan Winter. All were written before September 11th 2001, and I myself had just started writing chapter five of this story when I heard about the World Trade Center attack. Therefore whilst the last chapters were written with the benefit of hindsight, the early chapters were not.


	6. Chapter 6

**The dead**

**1. Tuba Dei**

I was sitting on the plinth of my memorial statue with the barrel of my shotgun shoved in my mouth, thinking about life.

"Surely you can't return these things?" I'd said to the Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office. "The countries concerned are dangerous enough already."

"I hardly think that the Chinese Government is going to need to invade Taiwan led by a fire-breathing dragon, do you?" the Permanent Under-Secretary had said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, and smiling his smoothest smile. "Besides the Dagger of Xian is of great cultural significance to them. Tourism is one of their biggest earners. You wouldn't want Chinese Communism to collapse through lack of US dollars, would you?"

I'd had to bite my tongue. "Surely you can't trust the Israelis with the Ark of the Covenant?"

"We trust them with the nuclear weapons that we secretly supplied the parts for," he'd replied, mildly. "Besides, it might help them sort out the Palestinian problem once and for all."

"O.K.," I said, pressing my knuckles into the palm of my hand. "Why take my father's collection of gold artifacts?"

"I'm told that most of it is covered by treasure trove legislation. You'll have your say in court, and you'll be compensated."

I snorted. "What about my _T. Rex_ head, then?"

"Biological hazard?" hazarded the Permanent Under-Secretary. "I'm guessing, I'm afraid."

"So. To sum up - the Government is burgling me."

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's out of my hands. You still have one or two pieces."

"The broken head of an Olympean warrior and the broken remains of an Atlantean Scion."

"Sounds jolly interesting. Lara - surely at the end of the day these are all just things? It's not as if you need the money. Surely the main thing is that you still have your health."

I gave him a long, long look. "How exactly would you define health?" I said. Then I'd gotten up and left his office with another word.

Of course, it was all revenge.

The official account of my escape from the Tomb of Seth was jolly heroic. Apparently I'd just picked myself up and climbed my way out of there, to emerge blinking in the desert sunlight, ready for a whole new set of adventures. Now that my image had been trademarked, the company had that image to protect. I wandered around shops only to encounter plastic models of myself posing next to a motorcycle or holding a harpoon. The only good thing about the models and the computer games was that I was unrecognisable from real life. Small mercies. That Lara never grew old, never stopped being sharp. She never stopped making big money.

In reality, waking up in the Tomb of Seth had been distinctly unglamorous. I'd lost my backpack. I couldn't find a torch. I could hardly crawl. I'd lain there for an eternity, dust in my mouth and eyes, weeping for a painkiller. The thirst had grown and the pain had begun to fade. I was dying. I'd smiled when I'd realised that I was dying. So peaceful. But still I didn't die. The hours or the days had passed. I'd grown bored. I'd begun to dream of an ice-cold glass of lager served on a marble bar top in sweaty Alexandria. So I got out of there. Just. The newspapers had kept away from me. I'd given one or two jaundiced interviews that jarred with my clean-cut, upper-class, non-drinking, non-smoking, non-swearing, asexual image.

"Super," I thought, feeling the cold metal of the gun against my teeth. "I saved the world again. Lucky old world. Saved to continue to sell me."

Maybe, like Jim Morrison or Marilyn Monroe, it was time to ensure my iconic status.

I pushed the trigger of my shotgun and plastered the memorial statue to myself with my brains.

*****

I'm not sure if I heard Azrafil's trumpet or not. Maybe there was a sort of ringing in my ears, the aftermath of a sound that was still reverberating around the stones of the Croft Mausoleum, but then, logically my ears must have still been a dead woman's ears when the first blast blew.

My first reaction when I came to myself was to reach upwards. There was a cold stone surface a foot and a half above me, and stone walls to each side. It was lucky that I wasn't in an ordinary coffin, or else I'd never have been able to lever my legs into the position needed to shift that stone lid. When I pushed upwards I was amazed at how strong I felt. There were no stiffness in my muscles, and no tinges of pain from my many wounds.

It took me a while, but eventually the stone crashed to the floor in the darkness, and I stood up. I reached my hands around to the back of my head, where the shot should have exited. Nothing missing, but my hair - so glossy, so thick. I hadn't had hair like that since I was in my twenties.

My body felt - I don't quite know how to describe it. Full of juice springs to mind. I was feeling so very healthy, so very 'bouncy'. Just standing there in that new body with the heart beating, the feeling of the new skin, that strange whoosey feeling in my stomach and my breasts and my groin, I felt so very young.

I thought about how only minutes ago - it seemed like minutes - I'd blown my own brains out.

"You stupid woman," I said to myself. "How could you possibly have wanted to kill yourself?"

I was the only occupant of the Mausoleum. Grandfather had built it, but there were no occupants yet. Grandfather himself had been eaten by hippopotami in the Sudan. Grandmother was not longer part of the family after she ran off to have an abortive affair with Adolf Hitler. Their only child, my father, was still very much alive as far as I knew, and as for mother - she was about as welcome in the family crypt as a Big Mac at Glastonbury.

If I'd only but known it, it was a good job that the floor of the Mausoleum was built of solid rock. The first clue to what was going on outside was the voices. Even through the closed doors I began to hear hundreds of voice - a huge multitude. There was screaming and shouting. I could hear snatches of English and of other tongues. French? Latin? Surely not Latin? The big doors at the top of the Mausoleum steps began to shake and creak. I took a step backwards. I was dressed in my best clothes, the ones I'd been laid out in, but I had no guns. If Winston had been around he'd have made sure I was buried with my beloved Brownings strapped to my thighs. My tomb was surrounded by iron railings. I dislodged one of the palings with a large rock. A spear wasn't much use against a mob, but - let's just say it was psychological. As I tried to imagine what was going on outside, an idea was forming in my mind. Here I was, risen from the dead, miraculously restored to perfection. The only possibility that I could think of was the Judgement Day. What if the whole world had risen with me? They'd be out there packed tighter than sardines. If it was Judgement Day, no doubt I was going straight to Hell on a bus.

The doors continued to creak. "Well get on with it," I said, to nobody in particular. "I've always wanted to meet Satan."

"I think I'm going to meet him sooner than you," said a quiet voice behind me.

I spun around, spear at the ready. It was an angel - slightly frazzled looking - but an angel nonetheless.

"Don't you remember me?" said the angel.

I was staggered. It was Azrafil.

I had started stammering. So much for finishing school. "B-but that was all a dream," I said.

I was referring, of course, to my heroic exploits in Kosovo. For a while I'd been convinced that I'd discovered the tombs of the Byzantine emperors. I'd also been convinced that a large crowd of angels - a 'United Nations of the Angels' - had come and stopped the fighting on Mount Torbesi.

"I went through all this with Stella Oldfield," I was saying.

"Lara ..."

I was counting off on my fingers; I was avoiding looking at him. "There were too many wrong facts. The Hungarian crown has two altered panels, not three. It wasn't a female crown, it was a male crown. Constantine Monomachus never adhered to dualism ..." I suppose that I was hoping that a burst of rationality would make him disappear.

"Lara, shh," said Azrafil, putting a finger to my lips. "None of that matters and nobody cares."

His touch calmed me somewhat and I closed my eyes. "This is another dream now, right?"

"I'm afraid not. Something bad has happened."

"Bad?"

Azrafil winced. "I don't have much time, but - basically I'm on the run. The Gabriel Hounds are on my heels. And soon I'm to be reassigned. To a different angelic host."

He made me sit down with on a rock bench .

"There's this being - their name doesn't matter - who has found a way to sneak into the City of Angels," said Azrafil. The City of Angels was the main Christian afterlife community. "This being - this intruder - doesn't hold a conventional view of morality, and it seems to me that their sole motivation is anarchy. They've already tried to mold the world to their needs a couple of times, and this time I think they've managed to destroy it."

"Whoa! Slow down." My brain was beginning to work again. "I remember you," I said. "You're the angel in charge of the end of the world. You're in charge of that trumpet."

"The Trumpet of the Last Judgement," said Azrafil. "One blast and the whole Resurrection thing is set in motion like a big machine."

"I thought you had the Trumpet well guarded?"

"So did I."

"It seems that you've been a tad careless," I said.

"Indeed," said Azrafil.

"So. What's the deal? You want me to recover the Trumpet."

Azrafil laughed in an embarrassed way. "If only it was that simple," he said, fiddling with the tips of his wings. "The Trumpet is safe. It's Death that's missing."

"Death?"

"Yes."

I snorted. "Oh give me a break," I said. "What - 'Death' like in Bill and Ted? Big cloak, skinny fingers, scythe?"

"Not quite. Do you remember Azrael?"

Azrael had been one of the trio of angels who had spoken to me on Mount Torbesi.

"He was the Angel of Death. Nobody dies without him," said Azrafil. "Let me quote to you from the Koran."

"Do you have to?" I said. Generally I'm about as popular with Islam as I am with the Masons.

"Sura XXXIX, The Troops, Verse 68. _And there shall be a blast on the trumpet and all who are in the Heavens and all who are in the Earth shall expire, save those whom God shall vouchsafe to live_. The irony is that the one person to die - the one person who isn't needed any more - is the Angel of Death."

"Logical enough. So that howling mob out there - God has vouchsafed them to live?"

"What's going on out there has very little to do with God," said Azrafil.

At that moment a sound became audible above the noise of the mob. It was the noise that a flight of geese make as they pass overhead. Azrafil was white and dressed in white, but he turned a paler shade of white.

"The Gabriel Hounds," he said. "Azdemoneus has nearly found me."

"So what am I supposed to do to help you," I said, picking up on some of his fear. "Start shooting them all until I've cleared some space?"

Azrafil pulled himself together. "I have two gifts for you which might help you on your quest."

"O.K."

"Firstly - this." He produced what looked like a large fishing net made of gold. "This net is used by fishers of men. To gather men up."

"I don't understand."

"Everyone who was ever alive is alive. Moses. Beowulf. Hildegarde of Bingen. You can have whoever you like to help you."

I took the net dubiously. "Hildegarde of Bingen?"

"Just think of them as you swing out the net, and they will be yours."

He took my hand and we floated upwards. As we rose through the roof of the Mausoleum I got my first scent and sight of the brave new world that Azrafil's trumpet had wrought. The ground was black with people, stretching to the horizon. In the distance I could see the Croft Mansion. It appeared to have been converted to offices. There was a big sign on the front reading 'Coca Cola Political Management Services UK.' There were figures falling out of the windows. Obviously not fans of the great taste of Coke. Hovering high above them I could see what looked like another angel. Below us was the howling mob, all ages, all races. They were fighting and biting and kicking and trampling. It was unnerving.

"Can any of them die?" I asked.

"No," said Azrafil. "All wounds will heal. But they can feel pain. They can thirst and starve."

I coudn't think of anything to say to that.

"Now - here is your second gift. Every fisherman needs a boat."

The boat was great. It was a bit like a Viking long boat and it was hanging in mid air. As we alighted on the wooden deck, the geese were circling around us.

"Just think of a place and you'll be there," said Azrafil. He glanced at the Gabriel Hounds. "I think it's time for me to go."

I grasped his hand, hard. "If I sort this out, will you be reinstated?"

However his time was up. At that moment there was a shimmering, and Azdemoneus - the third member of the Mount Torbesi group - appeared. His eyes were red and his wings were wreathed in burning sulphur.

"Good morning, Lara," he said. "How are you?"

With one gesture he directed a sheet of fire at Azrafil, who burst into flames.

"In answer to your question," said Azdemoneus, "Azrafil is ours now. Forever. Satan isn't very pleased with this 'no death' thing. We'll be having our fun with Azrafil. But I suppose a resumption of normal service might persuade us to lay off him a bit."

You can't really bargain with the Devil but I thought I'd have a try. "But the Trumpet thing - it was a mistake. This is so unfair."

Azdemoneus laughed. "Go read your Bible."

"What about your 'United Nations of the Angels?'"

"It's Judgement Day - haven't you heard? Now the bad really get it in the neck. Speaking of which - we've got a lovely set of red hot pokers downstairs just itching to get at your cute little ass. If you get ever bored up here again. Nice self-inflicted head shot, by the way. How we laughed."

"Fuck you," I said.

A swarm of fiery mosquitoes appeared and began to feast on the unfortunate Azrafil's burning eyes. Then the both of them disappeared, leaving me alone on my boat, net in hand.

The Gabriel Hounds flew off.

The wind ruffled my hair.

"Take me up," I said to the boat. "Take me up until I can't hear the screaming any more."

**2. Fisher of men**

For long time I sunbathed in the nude. I couldn't get over myself.

As far as I could see, I had no immediate incentive to do anything at all. If I reinstated death, and died, then all I had to look forward to was a rough party in Hell. OK - so I'd need some food and things, and company would be nice, but even then I was sure than I could cope with hanging out in a boat in the clouds for a very long time, especially feeling as groovy as I did.

"Why is it my job, anyway? I didn't blow the bloody trumpet."

I could pick up some debris and build a thing to catch rainwater. I could go fishing over the ocean. I could swoop over tropical islands and pick fruit from the trees without ever landing. If I got too hot, I'd go somewhere cold. If I got too dry, I could go to Manchester. I wondered if the ship would take me back to Mars if I asked it.

I had it made, as far as I could tell, and with no effort on my part. I chuckled. Clever old me.

However, I began to think about it. Leaving Azrafil to one side for the moment, everybody was alive. Did that mean that somewhere down there everybody I knew or had once known was struggling for their lives in some ghastly rugby scrum?

I wasn't sure that I felt very comfortable with that. I looked at the boat. It was big, but not that big. How many people could I fit on it? And who would I save and who would I leave? I could see that it was going to start bugging me.

Then there was a pride thing. Azrafil could have chosen anybody in the world, anybody from any time period. He'd chosen me. He must have thought I have pretty hot. I couldn't help it, but it made me brim with self-gratification. Lara Croft - doing what she did best, saving the world. I was good. I was very good. It was nice to be appreciated. And maybe I had an image to live up to.

The old me - the one who had blown her brains out - would no doubt have crawled into bed and stayed there for eternity. But I was feeling so very funky. I wanted to give life an old-fashioned kicking, like I always used to. Use it or lose it, that's what they say.

"Let's go fishing," I said, picking up the net. My first choice was a no-brainer. "Give me Winston Jeeves." Every Don Quixote needs a Sancho Panza.

I didn't recognise the figure who was deposited in the net at my feet. It was naked, covered in filth, and gibbering.

"Take us to the centre of Lake Balaton," I told the boat. There was no feeling of movement. One minute we weren't there and the next we were.

He didn't know me at first - it appeared that he didn't even know himself. Or how to speak English. Or what planet we were on. He was about twenty years old. I helped him over the side of the boat into the water and washed him. Then I shared my clothes with him and flew us somewhere warm.

"Lara?" he said, eventually. His voice was much deeper.

"God, I've missed you," I said. I kissed him and we started to cry.

I loved him. What can I say? And eventually, because we were only human and because we were glad to be alive and not wallowing in some insane cesspit, we made love. Iï¿½ve got nothing else to say on the matter.

*****

Winston had all his hair, as well as a rather grand moustache. He seemed about twice as tall as his old self.

"If it's all right with you," he said, "I'd rather remain as your manservant."

"Shagging the staff?" I said. "What would the neighbours say?"

"Lord Henry Douglas managed to pursue a 30-year relationship with his butler, and nobody minded much. It's not as if Lord Douglas presented his boyfriend to society, and he'd done his duty with regard to heirs. Besides, I suspect that the neighbours have other things on their mind, Miss."

"Don't you think that calling me 'Miss' or 'Madam' seems a bit S and M?"

"If it pleases Madam to look at it that way."

"But we're still going to make love, I take it?"

"I'm pleased to service Madam in whatever way she chooses," said Winston, with a straight face.

I burst out laughing and kissed him. Winston blushed. "'Servicing Madam' indeed," I said. "What a naughty boy."

"Yes Miss."

"You shall be my body servant. I shall instruct you."

"Yes Miss."

We were hungry and so we killed an over-curious dolphin by smacking it over the head with a piece of wood. Then we found an uninhabited tropical islet. Winston lit a fire by twirling some sticks, and used a sharp piece of glass as a knife. The dolphin was delicious when lightly grilled and eaten with tropical citrus fruits.

"The Admirable Winston," I said, after the meal. "Give us a kiss."

"Very good Madam."

Eventually we had to decide whom else to go collect with the golden net. Winston was reluctant to discuss our predicament at first, but I gave him a fairly vicious Chinese burn.

"I'm at a loss as to the reason why the Divine Being, whoever He or She may be, doesn't just correct this lamentable situation," said Winston.

"Maybe it's one of those free will things," I said. "Or some sort of test, like Lot's wife."

"Indeed."

"God's a right joker, isn't he?"

"I haven't really formed an opinion, Miss."

"So. Who do we go and get?"

It was difficult to choose when the problem facing us was so unclear. Were we supposed to reinstate death? Is so, was Azrael the only acceptable Death? What about the various gods of death, like Coatlicue, Osiris or Kali? Were they all gone as well?

"Maybe I should try and bring Kali here," I suggested.

Winston frowned slightly. "Do we really want a goddess of death in the boat?" he said. "Besides, didn't Madam once have a bit of a punch up in India with the representatives of Kali?"

It was a good point. It was difficult not to think of a deity I hadn't offended in some way or another.

"It's not all about me, though, is it?"

"Of course not, Madam. However, are we convinced that tracking down a purveyor of death is the best plan? Maybe we need to seek advice rather than an immediate solution."

And so I brought back Jean-Ives Le Spartacan, Professor of Archaeology.

*****

"_Merde,_" said Jean-Ives after we'd scraped the excess excrement from his face. He was as thin and young as Winston, and with a sexy French accent.

"Steady, old man," said Winston, putting a hand on Jean-Ives' shoulder to stop him fainting again.

"_Vous etes Anglais_?" said Jean-Ives. He began to laugh in a dazed fashion. "_C'est vrai_ - 'God is an Englishman.'"

"Jean-Ives," I said. "_C'est moi_. Lara. Lara Croft. _Et_ Winston."

"Lara? _Mais - vous etes morte_.

I spread my hands. "_Je suis tres bien in actuellement_."

"_Votre Francais - terrible_."

"So's mine I'm afraid. Could we stick to English?" said Winston.

"_C'est le vieux rosbif d'Angleterre,_" said Jean-Ives under his breath.

"Boys, boys," I said. "I want us to all be pals."

Jean-Ives smiled. "'Pals' it is," he said.

"_Amies_," said Winston, holding out a hand.

Jean-Ives glanced at him and then at me.

"Go on," I said, "Shake his hand, and no remarks about _le malaise Anglais_."

"He is not ...?"

"No he bloody well isn't."

They shook hands.

Jean-Ives Le Spartacan was an old friend. His most famous piece of work had been for the De Gaulle government when he illustrated that Algeria had been a Celtic settlement in Roman times, and that all the modern day Algerians were invaders from the African subcontinent. Altough the principles of La Republic hadn't allowed the government to 'ethnically cleanse' Algeria, it provided a justification for limiting the number of Algerian immigrants in Paris. When Le Pen had started to quote Jean-Ives' findings, Jean-Ives had to dissociate himself from his own work.

He'd moved to Alexandria, where he'd helped me with the Set emergency that my own greed had created. Unfortunately, the Head of Archaeology in Alexandria was also named, by a strange coincidence, Jean-Ives Le Spartacan. There had been an argument between the two of them whilst I was pottering around in the various Pyramids. A _Le Monde_ reporter had tempted the two men into a public slanging match, with both shouting "_Mais non! Je suis Le Spartacan_!" and my Jean-Ives had a heart attack - a lifetime of _pan chocolate_ and cassis finally caught up with him. He'd finally succumbed on hearing the news of my loss in the Temple of Horus. As for me - it took me months to find out he was dead. It hadn't improved my mood.

I commanded the ship - I'd named it the _Grace de Dieu_ - to sail to the Galapagos, but the place was full of tourists and sailors who were busy eating the giant tortoises. Ironic to think that much despised civilisation was the only thing that had kept them from becoming extinct. So we went back to the uninhabited tropical isle that we'd been to before, and we decided to make it our home base, naming it the _Isle of Fools_.

"It's an interesting situation, _n'est pas_?" said Jean-Ives, eating a coconut. "I do not see how we 'ave the power to disengage the apocalypse."

"We did it in Egypt," I said.

"That event seems like a mere _divertissement_ compared to the present one."

"Madam seems to have been given a fair amount of power," said Winston, smoothing his moustache with a thoughtful finger.

"_C'est vrai, mon brave_. But although I agree with you that to summon a god of death may prove foolhardy, maybe we need to discover some sort of helpful god or goddess."

"It seems to me that this is a very Biblical thing," I said. "Azrafil and the others are all Christian."

"Or Islamic or Judaic," said Jean-Ives.

"Maybe we need to consult more angels."

"_It is possible_."

"Maybe we should call on good old St. George, Miss," suggested Winston.

I remembered the St. Georges in Belgrade. "I'd rather pick someone else," I said.

"Maybe instead of summoning them," said Jean-Ives, "we should take the _Grace de Dieu_ to where one of them is. Maybe an archangel. My knowledge of _L'Apocalyse_ is ... how you say - _un peu_ hazy? Do not specific archangels carry out specific tasks?"

"He's got a point, Madam," said Winston.

"We need a copy of the Bible, the Koran and the Talmud," I said.

"What about the British Museum Library?"

Jean-Ives snorted. "Why not _le Bibliotheque Nationale de Paris_? It has many more books."

"Look lads, it would be easier to pop down the local branch of Blackstones," I said, "but I have a more interesting idea. Let's take a trip to Vatican City."

*****

The Vatican was granted independent status in 1929 by Mussolini, and from within his lavish court the Pope reigns over approximately five hundred million Catholics. I didn't realise it as we approached the burning city through the clouds of smoke, but the Vatican is the only model left on earth of the City of the Angels. It is the only really Byzantine court still in existence, with the difference that the Pope doesnï¿½t blind people who annoy him. The bureaucracy of cardinals and bishops and canons and the world wide web of the Sees of the Catholic Church mirror the _logothetes_ and _strategos_ and _protovestiarii_ who used to help govern the Themes of Byzantium. Now, as I tell this story, the irony of us visiting the Vatican prior to visiting the City of the Angels is hard for me to avoid.

The _Grace de Dieu_ approached from the south over the _Via di Porta Angelica_ - we could see that the Basilica in the _Piazza Santa Pietro_ was in flames. Fire and stone chippings were falling like a Pompeian rain onto the packed herds of Romans below.

"_Sacre Blue_," said Jean-Ives. He was as ashen as an ancient marble. I found myself involuntarily making the sign of the cross, a comforting leftover from my childhood.

"You have thought that His Holiness would have received some sort of special treatment," observed Winston.

"Do we know where we are going?" I said. "I've visited the Vatican but I've never overflown it."

"_Le Libraire Apostolique_ - he is situated by the Belvedere and the Pigna Courtyards," said Jean-Ives, pronouncing the last word with difficulty.

"That's the Belvedere below ..." I said, but was cut short by what I saw.

The Belvedere, a long courtyard with the Borgia Apartments brooding at one end, was filled with naked men. They were shouting and beating at each other with sticks and crosiers and the remains of weapons. Some of them wore the remains of apostolic robes and one or two had a battered Pope's crown on their bony heads. There were cries in various tongues - Latin, German, French, Italian, in dialects ranging from the ancient to the nearly modern.

"How many Popes have there been?" I whispered to Winston.

"Over two hundred and fifty, I believe, Miss."

"Well unless my eyes deceive me a large proportion of them have risen from the grave and are in the process of having a ruck."

"So it would seem, Miss."

"Strange behaviour for saints."

"If you say so, Madam. Maybe, like many heirs, the Heirs to the Apostles cannot agree on their inheritance."

Although a few Popes are buried at Avignon, but at least 35 of them are buried in St. Peter's and in the Vatican Grottos. The Medicis and the Borgias are buried in churches nearby in Rome, whilst many others have been moved from the old Lateran basilica and the Roman catacombs into the Vatican Museums. Something - maybe the Borgia Apartments - had caused them to congregate.

"I thought on Judgement Day that all war and argument would cease?" I said.

"So we've been lead to believe, Madam."

"Hmm," I said. I was feeling mildly shocked. "Maybe we'd better set down on the Library roof. At least that isnï¿½t on fire."

"Very good, Madam." I gave him a kiss, and caught the flash of Jean-Ives' glance out of the corner of my eye.

**3. Bad penny**

There didn't seem much point in taking Jean-Ives or Winston with me, despite the fact that they were both now fit young men. I had the combat experience and I wasn't anxious to find out if the Net would bring a person back twice.

We moored the _Grace de Dieu_ at the Tower of Winds. I slung a rope over the side and clambered down.

"But Madam," said Winston, "surely you shouldn't go alone?"

"I expect that boat to be in one piece when I get back."

"I shall have a look around out here whilst you are inside," said Jean-Ives.

"If you're not here when I get back I'm not coming to find you."

"_Pas de probleme._"

"Winston - I expect you to try and minimise his ridiculous Gallic machismo."

Jean-Ives let out one of those untranslatable French noises of outrage.

"Very good, Madam," said Winston, in a very English accent.

*****

Obviously I wasn't visiting the Vatican Library simply for a Bible. I wanted to get into the secret areas, partly because I'd always wanted to, and partly because I had one of my hunches that it might prove useful. My track record of finding hidden treasure despite having no plan (and using no logic) is second to none. Maybe I'm clairvoyant.

I sneaked in through a skylight, my ears as sharp as an Alsatian's. With a bit of luck there wouldn't have been too many people buried beneath the Library, I thought. Unfortunately, I was wrong.

I could hear a clanking and a screaming from the upper corridor, and I crept out on all fours to look over the balcony. Wood smoke tainted with a smell of roast pork made my eyes water.

In between the reading tables and overlooked by various Catholic saints was a cohort of Roman legionaries. They had obviously been buried with their armour, since they were dressed in lumps of rust connected by scraggy bits of material and leather. They carried swords that looked as if they would fall apart if they were used. The man in charge - maybe a decurion - had his helmet welded to his head by brown and green knobs of iron and copper. They had made a fire out of chairs and were roasting what looked like a still-living librarian.

Normally I'd have dismissed them out of hand but nonetheless they were all fit young men, and I was weaponless. Stealth was required.

I found a leaflet in English with a room plan. Which was nice. The so-called 'Secret Archives' were available to view in a not very secret exhibition. I wasn't sure whether it was worth investigating or more - my sixth sense said not. Somewhere there must be an archive that was still secret. If this library was like any other library, then it would either be in the attic or the cellar. I'd come in through the attic, so now I had to go down to the cellar. Where there was lots of old earth, filled with the bones of past generations.

Bollocks, I thought.

However, at the bottom of the staircase, I had my first lucky break. Lying in a pile was the blue and orange uniform of a Vatican Swiss Guard. Its owner was nowhere to be seen - maybe he'd been the first course for the Romans. This was good news. Much as I enjoy running around with my tits and arse hanging out, some proper clothes were just the ticket. Even better than the outfit was an antique looking pike. It may have been only ceremonial but the head was made of sharpened steel and the haft of strong pliable wood. As well the pike, in the pocket of the pantaloons I found a Swiss Army knife. I was armed at last, and if I found a horse with a stone in its hoof, I'd be sorted. I tucked my ponytail into the Swiss Guard beret and continued with my investigations.

The Vatican Library generally looked as if it had been used as part of the Pamplona bull run. That meant there were no locked doors. The basement was creepy. There was no electric light, and the floor was uneven and potholed, with tilted floor boards and tilted stone tiles, as if there had been an eruption of bodies from underneath. The only advantage was that there was plenty of cover.

It was at the moment that I began to wonder what would happen if I tried to kill anybody. With zombies, you can chop them to pieces - lop their head off, or something - whilst they shamble about like morons. With vampires, which are all together nimbler on their feet, you'd stake them or you'd throw them into the sunlight. But what of this brand of undead? They'd risen whole and strong. Would every wound heal? Would the dismembered 're-member'?

I could hear the murmur of voices from a nearby room, and I approached cautiously.

There appeared to be something like a Roman group therapy session going on. The people were dressed in shabby tunics, and they had cloth fishes sewn to their breasts. One man, white bearded and patriarchal, with his hands raised as if in prayer, was talking quietly to them.

"As I wrote to you before," he said, in accented Latin, "those whose mouth is full of bitterness and cursing are very quick to shed blood. There is no fear of God in their eyes, they have never known peace and their road is filled with misery and destruction."

I knew what he meant.

"However, do not be afraid. The righteous dead will die no more," he continued. "Only the sinner is corruptible."

I hoped that he was wrong. A world in which only Christians were indestructible didn't sound too pleasant to me.

I slunk away. I was just wondering if the wooden floor that I was tiptoeing over was safe when it crumbled beneath my feet and I fell into the darkness.

*****

So much for my new young body. I bet my old crumbling body would have had the experience to grab onto something.

I was choked by a tremendous smell of sewage from the moment that I fell, and then, perhaps fortunately, I had the breath knocked out of me.

Whatever I had landed on was slick, warm and covered with giant knobbly bits. It moved under my touch. There was a tremendous moaning from just under my hands and feet. The moan spread out in concentric ripples until the whole space for hundreds of yards around me was filled with cries and groans and fragments of human speech.

I strained to see by the light coming down from the jagged hole above me, but I could see nothing. It was so dark that tiny black and white squares were dancing in my vision. I tried to stand, but the surface was so slippery and uneven that I fell heavily.

Then I could feel fingers reaching for me. They were rather purposeless at first, like a blind person mapping out a face, but then they became more grasping. Painful. It was like crowd surfing in a gas chamber.

I cried out in alarm in spite of myself. Something about it reminded me of that altar on Madunai Island.

Fortunately I still had my pike and my Swiss army knife. The knife wasn't that sharp, and the hinged blade kept threatening to chop my fingers off instead of those of my attackers, but it was adequate.

By using the pike as a crutch and by digging the point into any convenient piece of flesh or bone that presented itself, I began to inch along in the darkness. The major problem, apart from the grabbing arms, was that I had no shoes and I kept accidentally getting my toes stuck in gaping mouths. Do that once too often and something would get bitten off, I thought. Every now and again the tip of the pike would become entangled in some hair, and I'd have to wrench it free. It was like the uprooting of the fabulous mandrake - there would be a ripping, tearing sound followed by a scream, the sort of scream that could make the weak hearted mad.

After a time, I began to tire. It was harder work than wading through deep snow, and despite the heat and the steam and the stench rising all around me in the darkness, I was becoming icy cold. My sweat burned my skin like icicles, and my limbs were shaken by tremors that were more like twitches or spasms than just mere shivering.

I knew that I had to keep moving - I had to stay awake - or I would fall into the morass and be lost. I've struggled through an Arctic blizzard. I've hacked my way through the jungle of the Dorien Gap in the depths of the night. I've been forty fathoms beneath the sea with no air, no light and no idea of which way to go. But that time spent struggling through the modern equivalent of the Cloaca Maxima over the living bodies of the dead is the most lost that I've ever felt.

There was no rest. If I tried to stop, and rest on my pike, then the arms would begin to reach for me.

"Oh for God's sake, fuck off and leave me alone," I found myself shouting.

"Help us," came the replies, in many different dialects.

"If I get out of here, I'll help you all," I'd say. I had to justify my iron will to survive - I needed a form of logic to keep my head above water.

I was beginning to wish that I had crampons instead of bare feet. My toes were encrusted with faeces and vomit, and my slowing reflexes made it hard to keep a footing. The air, which was already bad, was beginning to stick in my throat. I was becoming more and more breathless and my throat was constricting. If I tried to cough to clear it, the coughing would turn into retching, and the time I spent stationary gave more time for my legs to be grabbed. They were already bruised and bleeding, and the muscles had that 'marathon feel' - stiffened and full of anaerobic acids. Climbing Everest without oxygen was a doddle compared to this.

Now I slipping down to the thigh if I missed my footing, my legs crushed between the packed bodies of the dead. I had to slash around me with the encrusted Swiss Army knife, but I couldn't avoiding the biting and the scratching as I struggled to regain my perch.

I was feeling faint. I found myself wondered if my tetanus jabs had been up to date when I died.

Then I began to pray. I had a vision of Father Dunstan in my mind. He was smiling gently, his fingers pressed together as we recited the Lord's Prayer together.

"Our Father," I whispered through cracked lips. "Who art in heaven ... who art in heaven. Are you? In heaven? Where are you, Lord?"

The howling all around me began to sound like harmony, like one of those choirs that sometimes gets shown on Songs of Praise.

"This isn't right, Father," I said to Father Dunstan. "This isn't the way that you described it to me. Where is that Good Shepherd? Where is that kindly Redeemer? The sheep are wandering over the hills being picked apart by wolves. Where is that sheep fold we were promised?"

Father Dunstan didn't say anything, but he smiled and nodded, as if he was hearing my First Confession.

I was about to give up - it was so tempting to lie down. There was a thrumming in my ears like the beat of giant wings, and a sweaty, disgusting wind was trying to over-balance me, blowing my hair into my face. I began to see flickers of light dancing on the walls of the sewer, and my night vision became acute enough to see all of the despairing faces beneath my feet.

"If you faint, you won't die," I thought. "You'll just wake up in hell."

My eyes rolled up in my head and my legs folded beneath me.

*****

When I regained consciousness, I was warm and dry. There was a cool cloth over my eyes - I could just see the sunlight through cracks in the weave - and I was naked, but wrapped in a fine blanket of some kind. I could smell sweet fresh air. I didn't move, but I allowed a faint smile to play on my lips. What a horrible dream I'd been having.

"I do believe our sleeping beauty is awake," said a female voice.

"We're watching you, Madam," said Winston's voice. "One false move..."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Winston. Take a chill pill," said the woman, with a California drawl. "I just followed her down there and saved her, didn't I? Besides - one false move and what, dude? You'll make me drink warm beer?"

I whipped the cloth from my eyes, and squinted up at her. For a moment I was dazzled by the sky and by her huge mop of glowing blonde hair, but I'd seen enough.

"Natla!" I said.

"Howdy pardner," said Natla, with a ferociously white smile. "How's it going?"

All of my memories, including the sexual designs that Natla had had on me in the past, came flooding back. I blushed and then I realised that I was practically naked.

"Where are my clothes?"

"Babes - I had to fireball them. They were enouugh to make a grown girl hurl."

"I could have washed them!" I said, wrapping the sheet very tightly about myself. "You were obviously taking advantage." It was as if she'd never been away.

"It wasn't just that they were covered in crapola," said Natla, in a reasonable voice. "Orange and blue stripes aren't really you."

"Who the fuck asked your opinion? You're supposed to be dead."

"I guess." Natla tried not to look hurt, but she brightened again after a millisecond of introspection. "You'll be glad to know, however, that your bod's looking even more buff than I remember. Reincarnation's obviously the new colonic irrigation."

Winston and Jean-Ives exchanged glances.

"Fucking lesbians," I said. "Why don't you all bog off back to New Mexico?"

"Snappish," said Natla. With a rustling of her leathery wings she stretched and gave a lioness yawn, her orthodontically perfect canines gleaming in the sunlight. Her mouth resembled a carnivorous red rose.

Winston cleared his throat. He was wearing a tropical suit with a tie, whilst Jean-Ives had found some jeans and a Fioricci T-shirt. "You'll be relieved to know, Miss, that whilst you were away we have been ... I'm not sure what the correct word is."

"_Le pillage_," said Jean-Ives.

"Shopping," said Winston. "And we have some clothing for you."

They'd gotten me my favourite outfit - leotard, shorts, boots and Marks and Spencers knickers.

"The one thing that they have in Rome is _le couture_. I also have _des Gitanes Kingsize et du vin._"

"We even managed to find some Heinz baked beans and a packet of Twinings English Breakfast Tea, Madam."

"Fantastic work, chaps," I said. "I'm getting changed now, and you are all going to turn your backs."

*****

Natla, for all her faults, did have a brain in her head.

We were back on the _Isle of Fools_ (or _L'Isle Des Folles_, and Jean-Ives had started calling it). Winston was trying to adapt one of his Indian recipes by baking chiabatta chapatis on open coals, and Natla was poncing about in the sea trying to catch fish like a heron. She'd hover noisily above the lagoon and then execute a perfect dive, wings folded against her back. She didn't catch a thing. Eventually she gave up and set about improving her already perfect tan, flaunting her perfect new Atlantean body.

Jean-Ives and I had set about getting pissed on Chianti and smoking lots of fags.

"You know what?" said Natla, pacing up to us stark naked. Jean-Ives rolled onto his stomach.

"Put some clothes on," I said.

"You're so English," protested Natla, but she draped a miniscule towel around herself. "I came to tell you guys something I've noticed, but if you're going to be snippy."

"What?"

"It's the sun. I was thinking maybe I'd have better luck fishing at sunset, but the sun is always stuck at high noon. It's a doozy."

We all looked up into the sky.

"I haven't noticed any sign of night since we were brought back," said Natla, "and wherever we go on the planet, it's always midday."

Jean-Ives pulled a Gallic face and then laughed. "_C'est vrai_," he said.

"I say," said Winston. "I thought I was getting a bit lobster coloured."

"It's the bit about wherever we go on the planet that gets me," said Natla. "Even if the earth had stopped going around the sun for some reason, it'd still be night somewhere. It can't be daytime in Rome and in the Caribbean simultaneously."

I offered her a glass of wine.

"Quite frankly it's got me hornswaggled."

I nearly choked. "_Hornswaggled_?"

"Did I get the dialect wrong again?"

"You tell us," I said. "You're the ersatz California girl."

"I never should have tried reading that damn Harry Potter book."

"No, you shouldn't," I said.

"Maybe time has stopped, Miss," suggested Winston.

"I did wonder about that," said Natla, "but then surely our senses wouldn't be working. Nerve impulses need time to travel."

"How you say - a watched clock never boils," said Jean-Ives.

"Uh huh," said Natla, expressionlessly.

We settled down to a meal of curried turtle eggs and chiabatta chapatis.

"Oh, by the way," said Natla, dabbing her lips, "you still haven't looked at this." She held up a battered bronze tube.

"What's that?"

"You had it tucked into your clothing when I found you."

"No I didn't," I said.

"Yes you did."

"No. I didn't."

"Suit yourself, babes. I'll just chuck it in the sea then."

"Really, ladies," said Winston.

"_Donnez le moi_," said Jean-Ives, holding out his hand.

Inside the bronze tube was a parchment.

"Are you sure you didn't pick this up in the Vatican Library, Miss?"

"I certainly don't remember picking it up."

"Could someone 'ave given it to you? _Dans l'eguote_?"

I gave Natla a hard stare. "You palmed this thing off on me, didn't you?"

Natla snorted. "As if," she said, and went to splash around in the rock pools, as carefree as Cleopatra in the bath of asses' milk.

I picked up the cigarettes and the wine and went off in the opposite direction to sit in the _Grace de Dieu_. They just didn't know Natla as well as I did. There was always some trick, some double bluff, to get people to do what she wanted. I wasn't falling for that one again.

I blew smoke rings for a bit, and finished the bottle. Then I pulled some canvas over me and went to sleep.

*****

I was woken by a whiskery kiss. I made him rig the sail over our trysting place, explaining that I didn't want Natla seeing us. He was wise enough and gentleman enough not to question me about it. Although he was prepared to be jealous of any attentions paid to me by Jean-Ives, he realised that my shyness of Natla was not worth trying to alter.

"How did she find us?" I said to him afterwards. "The whole world is in a turmoil, and yet she turns up unerringly in Rome, just in time to rescue me."

"Ms. Natla is a resourceful person, Miss," said Winston, with his arms around me.

"She's stalking me again."

"Maybe she simply wishes to help, Madam. Maybe she's grateful for a new lease of life."

"Continue to keep an eye on her."

"As Madam wishes."

We rejoined the others.

"So what was in the tube?" I asked.

"Later, _peut-etre_," said Jean-Ives, waving his cigarette. "Mademoiselle Jacqueline has been telling me something quite _incroyable_ which she observed on the way to Rome."

"She's not really called Jacqueline. She just adopted that name in the 60's and 70's."

"But it sounds so continental the way he says it," said Natla. "_Zjyackaleena_."

"You're from the wrong continent," I said.

Natla gave a wry smile.

"She says that she has seen people being judged," interrupted Jean-Ives.

That shut me up.

"As in - the Last Judgement?" said Winston. "The sheep and the goats, God's left hand and right hand - that sort of thing?"

Jean-Ives shrugged.

"And who was doing the judging?" I said.

"I'm no expert," said Natla, "but it didn't look like any Judeo-Christian god to me. And I generally know a deity when I see one."

"So who was it?"

Jean-Ives started laughing. "This is the unbelievable bit."

"Well it looked to me like a couple of those angel dudes plus a bunch of guys dressed up like Nazis."

Winston and I started laughing.

"Are you sure you weren't on the set of some poor quality Hollywood movie, Madam?" he said.

"Or maybe she's just forgotten to take her medication," I said.

Natla smiled cheerfully. "You guys!" she said. "Tell you what - why don't I just show you all?"

**4. A slight lapse in judgement**

We saw the geese first, the Gabriel Hounds, flying towards us and away from us in great flocks. Then we saw a glowing place in the distance - we were somewhere over the volcanic chain that includes Etna and Vesuvius - and the glow was a mixture of red and white gold.

I set the _Grace de Dieu_ down in a grove of cypress trees on the top of a blessedly uninhabited hill. The dead seemed to have been cleared away from these parts. We crept up to the edge and looked down on the valley of judgement, exactly as Natla had described it to us.

The Archangel Gabriel was seated on a giant throne, and to each side of him was a queue of naked people. Gabriel was the one that had sent things after me in Budapest and Belgrade. On his right hand was a huge white glowing staircase, flanked by statues, reaching up into the sky. On his left hand was a bottomless lava pit, filled with flames, and flanked by Azdemoneus and his gang.

So far, so good, but then we saw the things that made us realise that the world had gone quite mad. A train drew up on a station guarded by men in uniform. The uniforms were many and various - Protestant Nazis, Christian Romans, Boer War-period British soldiers in red jackets and white pith helmets, White Russians, South African policemen, Spanish conquistadors, French crusaders, slave ship captains and U.S. cavalrymen, missionaries from Australia - God-fearing genocidal nations of every era were represented. Out of the train spilled men women and children. Their possessions and clothing were piled up by the track, and they were segregated. Bureaucrats dressed in freshly pressed white lab coats passed down the lines, asking questions, taking measurements, consulting large leather-bound books. Some of the examinees were given robes and palms and harps, and lead to the queue before the stairway to the stars. They were comparatively few in number. The rest were handed symbols to hang about their necks - yellow stars, black stars, red stars, purple stars, pink triangles, green crescents, bleeding foetuses, atomic diagrams and pieces of DNA. They joined the queue waiting to pass by Gabriel's throne and the fiery pit. There was a backlog in processing the unworthy, and the crowd stretched almost to the horizon. Every now and again one of them would begin to argue or to run, but the men in uniform beat them back. The whole scene was like a bad cartoon from a hippy radical newspaper, risible and melodramatic, a bit like a Nuremberg Rally or a sermon by Jerry Falwell.

Natla was the first to break the silence. "You lot are always getting on your high horse, aren't you?" she said, without a trace of an accent. "I've always wondered why."

"Someone without a sense of 'umour is making a point," murmured Jean-Ives.

"But where is the Lord?" said Winston, echoing my thoughts. "This sort of thing is just not on."

Yet again, I could feel myself being dragged into something that I'd rather not get involved with. What had those people down there ever done for me? However Jean-Ives and Winston were looking at me, expecting a reaction of some kind. Natla, who knew me better, was filing her claw like finger nails and humming "The Deadwood Stage."

"Maybe we should find out," I said eventually. All things being equal, I least believed in the virtue of curiosity. "Everybody back to the boat. We're following that staircase."

*****

According to Belinda Carlisle, heaven is a place on earth, and my first sight of the City of the Angels didn't do anything to disprove the notion. The staircase, with its smattering of the breathless saved, disappeared into what looked like a dense cloud bank

"So where were you when you were dead?" I said to Natla.

"Where I was buried after our lover's quarrel, sweet thing."

"So - you just woke up after the sounding off the trumpet and freed yourself from the grave."

Natla smiled. "You're a strange girl, Lara. Nobody else would have asked that question."

"Humour me."

"As it happens," said Natla, "my spirit didn't rest easy. I began to wander the earth."

"You were a ghost?"

"A ghost. A ka. A denizen of the dreamtime. You can choose your own rationale."

At that moment we cleared what looked like a cloud but which turned out to be a hill, and there in the valley below us, sitting next to a golden sea, was the City of Angels. When I saw what it looked like, I nearly choked and my blood turned cold.

"_Mon dieu_," said Jean-Ives. "_C'est_ Byzantium."

"Good Lord," said Winston. "Constantinople. I visited it during my military service."

"But it is not. It 'as been rebuilt in _le style ancien_."

"I always thought that heaven would look like Jerusalem. As in the song."

"Surely you're not that surprised, guys?" said Natla, sourly.

"I don't think surprised covers the way I feel," I said.

"I'm glad I was in the deep freeze when all this Roman baloney hit the fan. This city sucks and its whole philosophy sucks."

At that moment I began to feel my fear and revulsion being swept away by a gentle perfumed breeze. I could hear a polyphonic choir warbling in the distance and an anachronistic tolling of church bells. Suddenly there was a narcotic smile spreading over my face. It was like the Grail all over again.

"We'd better keep our wits about us," I said, "or else we'll start singing Mistletoe and Wine."

"I am immune to such Papel nonsense," said Jean-Ives, raising a clenched fist. "_Vive le Republic_!"

"And I'm not really a fan of that sort of hysteria, Miss," said Winston. "I shall endeavour to keep Madam on the rails."

I kissed him.

"And I'll guard the boat," said Natla. "One look at a heathen idolator like me and they'll be firing up the propane powered hog roast. There's probably more than a spot fine for breaking the First Commandment."

"If you're not here when we get back," I said, "I'm setting the seraphim on you."

Natla battled her eyelashes, and put her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl. "You're so cute when you're ordering me about."

By this time we were just above the surface of the Sea of Marmaris, and next to us was the famous skyline, different, but familiar. We were approaching the Polis, the City, the centre of the world, the object of the world's desire. The minarets were missing, along with the Blue Mosque, but the cathedral of Hagia Sophia was there, brightly coloured and capped with almost unbearably bright gold. The Gatala bridge had not been constructed, but the sea walls were whitened and magnificent. We could see figures in white moving to and fro on the buildings and in the streets whilst to the west the queue of people from the staircase were entering by the Golden Gate. There was no pollution, no petrol fumes, no dirty ships hooting in the Golden Horn. The sea - when we touched down on it - was clear and calm, and it smelt of ambrosia instead of raw sewage. I wondered if angels went to the toilet.

"I could happily retire to this city," said Natla, "if only I wasn't an illegal alien. It would be so easy to turn one's back on the world and forget it all."

"Dreaming spires," said Winston, "or rather, dreaming domes. No wonder the New Jerusalem is compared to England."

"A corrupt indifference," said Jean-Ives. "An imperial power that demands everything and delivers nothing."

"That remains to be seen," I said.

We headed towards what Jean-Ives and I agreed was the Habour of Julian, just next to the Iron Gate. It seemed to most sensible place to try and reach the Imperial Palace from.

Of course there were guards waited there for us, dressed in the whitest, more flowery and most over decorated Roman military uniforms I'd ever seen. Kitsch was hardly a strong enough word for it.

"Who are you?" said a tall Julian Cleary look-alike, speaking Greek in the same way that the Queen speaks English.

"I am Lara Croft," I said, "and these are my companions, Mr. Winston Jeeves and Professor Jean-Ives Le Spartacan."

"I am Centurion Tadzio Ducas of the City Port Authorities and these are my heavily armed guards," he said, and there was a ripple of amusement from his men. "Perhaps you would kindly enlighten us as to why we should not throw the lot of you in jail."

"Is it illegal to be a visitor to the City?"

Centurion Tadzio smiled in a supercilious fashion. "It is illegal to have stolen the ship of the renegade Azrafil, and it is illegal to attempt to bring a creature of evil onto holy ground." He gestured at Natla and the Grace de Dieu.

"Vale, dude," said Natla. "Nice quads."

"Do shut up," I said to her. I turned to Centurion Tadzio again, and explained that we had neither stolen the ship nor did we intend to allow Natla ashore.

"So what do you want?"

They made us take off our shoes, and don robes.

"We can't have you entering the Court of the Pantocrator dressed like a common prostitute," said Centurion Tadzio, looking at my bare legs. "Although apparently the Basileus has a soft spot for common prostitutes. He nearly married one once according to the official history."

"And there's no chance of us actually meeting your Basileus in person?"

"Absolutely none."

"But we're ambassadors from earth."

"You could be ambassadors from Olympus itself and you still wouldn't get to see him."

We were escorted through the golden streets to the celestial equivalent of the Blachernae Palace. The citizens we passed were quietly discussing theological matters, books in hand, or composed new psalms to the glory of their Emperor. Their faces were unlined, their consciences unpricked and their freedom from responsibility for their fellow men complete. For them, the world outside the City did not exist. Life was good and if other people could not share in the goodness - well, then they were unworthy to. It was a self fulfilling prophecy. I wondered if one day a group of terrorists representing the unworthy of the earth would burst in here and blow up the heavenly version of Hagia Sofia just to prick the complacency of the company of angels. I wondered if that was what had happened with the Trumpet of the Last Judgement - a Pyrrhic attempt to influence the politics of the City.

We were shown into visitor's quarters by a smooth eunuch and given a servant. The house was drafty and bare, and I immediately realised that we had achieved nothing. So I decided to take a risk.

"Tell your masters that I am the Lara Croft who discovered the resting place of the Byzantine emperors, and that I am on a mission from Azrafil," I said.

"Are you sure you want me to tell them that?" said a minor court official who reminded me somewhat of the Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office. "They're likely to cut off your ears and nose for insolence."

"I'll risk it."

A day passed, and we tried every word game and number game and general knowledge game we could think of. The novelty of being in the City of the Angels was rapidly wearing thin. It was like celebrating New Year's Eve in a convent.

"Heaven really is a place where nothing ever happens," I said.

*****

Then at last, they came for me.

"The Basileus will see you," said a rather grand looking man, the Byzantine equivalent of a Grand Vizier. "I hope that your affairs are in order?"

"You guys do realise that the world has ended?"

"I believe that some preliminary rumours have reached us in the latest influx of refugees, but we have far more important matters to attend to," he said.

"Such as what?"

"Things that only a citizen might appreciate. Theological disputes. Chariot racing. The annual competition to see how many angels can squeeze themselves on to the head of a needle."

My approach to the Imperial Chambers of the Basileus took several hours. Firstly they washed me and dressed me in suitable clothing. Then they instructed me on Court etiquette such as how to address the Basileus -"G'Day me old mucker" was a definite no-no - and told me not to speak until spoken to. The whole affair was like waiting outside the headmistress' office for a good thrashing.

Then the moment came, and I was permitted to enter the Presence with my forehead sliding along the marble floor, propelling myself with my knees and elbows. There was a smelt of incense and I could see out of the corner of my eyes a bright light. A choir - accompanied by a large cacophony of tinkling bells, and gongs, and drums - was singing a song about the fabulousness of the Basileus. As I stopped, they stopped, and there was a complete silence.

"You may raise yourself", said a mild voice.

I sat back on my heels, and there - seated on a throne surrounded by acolytes and with his family around him - was Jesus Christ.

*****

"Your name," said the Basileus, glancing at a parchment being held up for his attention, "is Lara Croft and you come from our province of Britannia?"

It's kind of awe-inspiring to meet an historical figure. I'd met Alexander the Great, Set, Horus and a number of other fabled figures. However being English with a smattering of Catholicism, I couldn't help but be a little star struck. He look just like his icons - flowing hair and beard, dark skin, and deeply lined mournful eyes - a bit like a weary Osama bin Laden. He held one hand in front of him, with the palm facing outwards, and touched his rather thin lips with the finger nails of two fingers as if he was giving a permanent benediction. His feet, dressed in soft sandals and protruding from beneath the hems of his Imperial robes, bore the scars of the Crucifixion.

"Yes, my Lord," I replied.

"My advisors tell me that you have a song - Jerusalem - which asks the rhetorical question 'And did those feet in ancient time walk upon England's pastures green'?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Flattered as I am by the loyalty shown to your emperor, I'm afraid to report than I have never visited your kingdom."

There was a polite murmur of laughter.

"How do you find our City of the Angels?"

I was slightly at a loss for words. "It's very ... clean," I said eventually.

"Did not one of your poets say that cleanliness was next to godliness?"

There were some cries of appreciation and some applause at this evidence of the learnedness of the Basileus.

"Yes, my Lord."

The Basileus received a goblet of wine and then sat staring at me in an affable fashion. I wondered if I was supposed to speak.

"If I may be permitted a question phrased in the form of a parable," he said, eventually, "imagine that you were in your house cooking the most difficult but worthwhile of dishes, filled with expensive spices and made from the rarest of animals - a once in a lifetime creation. Then imagine that you looked out of the window and there were two dogs fighting each other to the death in the yard. What would you do - abandon your culinary creation at a critical moment to separate the two dogs, or ignore them as unimportant, given that dogs will always fight but that a true act of creation comes only once in a lifetime?"

I looked him in the eye for a long second. "My Lord," I said, "I would go and separate the dogs. Even a dog's life is more important than a pretentious meal."

There was a long silence. The entire court looked at me with neutral, empty faces. They resembled statues - calm and cold. Then the Basileus chuckled, and the others permitted themselves signs of icy amusement.

"That, presumably, is why I am what I am and you are what you are," he said, in a genial tone. "However, I feel that you are being disingenuous. My advisors tell me that you have often sacrificed lives in pursuit of some - what was the word that you used? For some 'pretentious' bauble, or some lump of gold? One feels that you would rescue the meal."

"My Lord ... " I began, but my forehead was pushed to the floor by the guard standing behind me. I hadn't been addressed.

"Oh let her up," said the Basileus' voice. "I'm sure she meant to use the vocative rather than the inquisitorial."

I sat up again.

"You had an observation, child?" he said.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Proceed."

"You are the shepherd whereas I am but a sheep," I said. "Surely your love for your flock should be greater than mine?"

"You are questioning my love for my subjects?"

There was a rustling from all round me, and the faces of one or two courtiers flushed red with anger.

"My Lord. I am not questioning your love, which I'm sure is as that of a father for his children," I said hastily. "I merely wondered if you were aware of the people who are administering the practical side of that love."

The Basileus smiled gently. "I see everything, should I choose to look. I know everything, should I choose to remember. My dominion is vast and my power unlimited."

He rose to get to his feet, and my forehead was pushed to the floor again.

"Thank you for your time," said the Basileus, and the audience was over.

**5. Flat earth**

We were rather a disgruntled group as we reboarded the _Grace de Dieu_. Winston, in particular, was looking rather doleful - his bushy moustache positively drooped and his shoulders were round.

"What is it," I said, hooking my arm through his.

"I realise that Madam doesn't tend to let things get to her, but I am not so strong," he said. "Nazis working with angels. A Christ who doesn't care. It all rather takes the biscuit."

"I'm sure things aren't what they seem. Everything is out of whack. I'm sure that this isn't a normal state of affairs."

Jean-Ives snorted quietly, but he kept his thoughts to himself. I reflected that if angels were prepared to work with devils, as I had seen in Kosovo, and were only prepared to stop the fighting because to protect an ancient tomb, and not because of some humanitarian impulse, then maybe Jean-Ives' silent scepticism was at least partially justified.

Natla was looking very un-Natla-like. She was seated quietly in the boat, trying not to draw attention to herself.

"Can we go yet?" she asked, in a plaintive voice. "This place doesn't have good vibes."

"We'll go for now, but I can't help feeling that all is not well in the Kingdom of Heaven."

Back at the _Isle of Fools_, we lay about, strangely exhausted.

Natla was bemused. "I realise that my grasp of modern affairs is sometimes sketchy," she said, "but what was it that these Nazis guys did that was so different from the Christian guys?"

"They slaughtered millions of non-Christians such as the Jews, for example," said Winston, hotly. "They were intolerant of people that didn't agree with them, they tried to expand their territory and imbue it with their warped philosophy. They killed homosexuals, ethnic minorities, intellectuals. They rewrote history to glorify themselves and demonise their opponents. They wanted to subjugate the earth under one order, with one leader, with an elite of people chosen for their so-called purity."

"Yes, dude," said Natla. "I know all that, but what about the Nazis?"

Winston looked as if he was going to punch her in the face, but he controlled himself and went to be alone.

"What?" said Natla. She managed to perform a baffled shrug that included her wings.

I sat by Jean-Ives and we returned to smoking and drinking. Sometimes inactivity was a virtue.

"Do you like Italian wine?" I said to him.

"It is pleasant enough, but it lacks character."

"Did you get a lot?"

"_D'assez_."

"Can I try some of that?" said Natla. "And one of those cigarettes?"

"_Certainement_."

"We created those intoxicant-containing plants that you love so much, you know. Tobacco, marijuana, cocoa, coffee, tea, coca. In the labs of Atlantis. It's amusing to see that your modern scientists are only just beginning to do the same thing with what they regard as more useful drugs."

"To Atlantis," said Jean-Ives, raising his glass. "_Le Paris du monde ancien_."

"And to Natla, its Marie Curie," I said, with a straight face.

"Gee guys!" Natla blushed. "Thanks."

*****

Jean-Ives was spreading out the parchment that Natla claimed I had brought back from the sewers of Rome.

"It is a treatise on the Aristotle view of the universe," he explained, in laboured English. "This is the view, opposed to our modern one of Galileo and Copernicus, that the earth is the stationary centre of _toute le monde_."

The parchment had an illustration of a saucerlike flat earth with, above it, embedded in giant crystal domes, the stars. The sun and the moon were like faces stuck on the celestial ceiling.

"There are many spheres of 'eaven to which the 'eavenly bodies are attached, and they revolve over the earth ."

"How cute," said Natla. "Just like one of those mobiles you hang over a baby's cot."

"_Naturellement_, the earth - being flat - is surrounded by a circular ocean. Where that sea is furthest from the heat of the sun, it freezes. Therefore the entire earth is ringed by ice."

"I expect that when they travelled to the far north and to the far south and found endless snow, it only confirmed their theory," I said. "Of course, one could never travel far enough west to find the West Pole, but they weren't to know that."

"Believe it or not there was a West Pole once, when the earth used to spin end over end. The equator went through Atlantis from north to south," said Natla.

I lit another cigarette and lay back on the sand, blowing smoke rings. I wasn't particularly interested in any of it. I was fast coming to the conclusion that if God didn't care, neither should I.

"So," I said lazily. "What makes the spheres revolve?"

"According to this writer, a perpetual motion mechanism," said Jean-Ives. "He speculates that there is a giant machine buried deep in the earth, driven by the power of volcanoes."

I couldn't be bothered so I went to find Winston.

*****

We lay in the _Grace de Dieu_ afterwards, entwined in each others' arms. I was playing with Winston's moustache with a gentle finger.

"What do you think I should do, Mr. Jeeves?" I asked him.

"I really don't know, Miss."

"Should we stay here? Plant a bit of garden. Raise some little Winstons and Laras?"

"I could build a cabin from palm tree logs," mused Winston. "We could channel fresh water from further inland if we managed to get hold of some plastic piping."

"A few goats and chickens. Maybe a herd of Herefords."

"I'm not sure that Herefords could cope with the heat, Madam. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that plants could cope with continual daylight."

"This sun thing is a bit of a bugger," I said.

"Maybe we should investigate it," said Winston. "If only for the opportunity to plant a few rose bushes."

I rested my chin on his chest and looked into his eyes. They were a bizarre mixture of brown and green, tending to change colour at different times.

"Do you love me?"

"Of course I do, Madam. That should be obvious."

"Then it should be equally obvious how I feel about you."

"Of course, Miss."

We kissed and then we got up.

"There is one thing that I noticed," said Winston, pulling on his trousers. "If Madam would raise the boat out of the water a few feet."

We stood looking at the underside of the _Grace de Dieu_.

"Good Lord," I said.

"Exactly," said Winston.

Stuck to one side of the keel was a network of red fibrous webbing - a sort of hidden harness. The red stuff was obviously Atlantean. There was also something that looked like a breathing apparatus fashioned out of intestines and bladders.

"She hitched a lift as a stowaway," I said. "So that's how she found us. But when exactly did she start? Before Rome? Before the boat even arrived?"

"It's an interesting question, Miss."

"Keep this between ourselves for now, Winston."

"Of course, Miss."

*****

We found some containers and filled them with water. From a derelict hospital we took a bucket of sand, some fire extinguishers and a fire axe, as well as some breathing apparatus. Finally we found some cold weather clothing and some fire blankets, as well as a climbing rope. It was like indulging in retail therapy in the shopping mall from "Dawn of the Dead".

"Ready?" I said.

I told the _Grace de Dieu_ to take us up one thousand feet. The sky was clearer and the sun brighter, but apart from that the only unusually thing was that our ears didnï¿½t pop. I took us up another thousand and then ten thousand. At one hundred thousand feet, there was no sign of thinning air and none of us seemed to be suffering from altitude sickness. The sun, however, was hotter than ever; we seemed to be travelling upwards through a temperature inversion. I looked out over the earth, but the horizon disappeared into a haze. We seemed to be in a circle of land, but it was impossible to tell if it was flat or spherical.

"O.K.," I said. "Let's really push it. Everybody get under the fire blankets and have that oxygen cylinder ready."

I filled my lungs with air and then, in a whisper, told the ship to rise to one thousand miles.

Immediately we were engulfed with flames. The rigging and the deck planking caught fire all around us.

"Sea level!" I yelled.

We hastily abandoned ship, and then climbed back on board to get to work with fire fighting equipment. Fortunately the Grace de Dieu, like ourselves, was only singed.

"Whatever that was," observed Natla, snipping burnt bits out of her blonde mop of hair, "it wasn't the sun as we know it."

"Why not?"

"The real sun would have vapourised us."

"And the real sun isn't only a thousand miles from sea level."

"If this is _un systeme Ptolemaic_," said Jean-Ives, "then why was not the sun embedded in a crystal sphere?"

"Maybe it was, old chap," said Winston. "Maybe it was sticking out from the surface."

"_D'accord, mon brave_."

"Step two," I said. "Get that cold weather clothing on, and then rope yourselves and the breathing apparatus to the ship."

I instructed the _Grace de Dieu_ to head west thirteen thousand miles. I wasn't sure what the diameter of the globe was at our latitude, but I reckoned that thirteen thousand miles ought to take us at least once around a spherical world, wherever we were.

There was a crash and I was knocked unconscious.

*****

I found myself struggling back to awareness. There was something over my mouth, which I tried to claw away. My eyes weren't focussing properly, but I could see a red fire ball, and I could feel a stinging burning on my skin. I became aware of a pain in my ears - there was absolutely no sound. I decided that I must be waking from a dream, and attempted to sit up. However, I appeared to be welded to the surface that I was lying on.

The fire ball was moving and in its glow I caught a glimpse of various things. There was a sloping turquoise surface above me, curving high into the sky. Its surface was studded with lights and tiny luminous fire balls. I couldn't tell if it was moving or whether my eyes were swimming.

Then I saw Natla. She was holding one hand high - the red fire ball was being generated from her wrist. Her other hand was being used to try and push the oxygen mask over my mouth. She was yelling something, but making no sound. Her face was beginning to be encrusted by the frozen water vapour issuing from her mouth, and her skin was blue. Suddenly she doubled up, gasping, and the fireball - our only source of heat - went out. The deck of the _Grace de Dieu_ was bathed in a ghastly aquamarine light and a vicious cold clamped down upon us.

I managed a tiny shred of thought in my confusion.

"Take us to the _Isle of Fools_," I tried to say, but the air disappeared from my mouth and my tongue froze.

The ship groaned beneath me, twisting like a whale on a beach. It rocked from side to side, but didn't move. There was no sound, but I could see some of the deck planks springing free or snapping in two. As if in slow motion, the main mast began to fall.

I cupped my hands over my mouth and made a tiny air pocket into which I repeated my command.

The _Grace de Dieu_ turned turtle in its efforts to be free. Below me there appeared a bottomless void, flanked by the turquoise sphere. I couldn't see Jean-Ives or Winston, but I guessed that, like me, they were frozen to the ship. Natla, however, fell. I would have yelled if I could. She landed in the ropes tangled around the top of the mast, which itself was barely connected to the ship, and hung there like a floppy blonde angel. My heart leapt into my mouth and I suddenly found myself overwhelmed with intense feelings of concern for her. I didn't know what I'd do if she was lost.

I struggled to pull myself free, my lungs crying out for air. I could see the breathing apparatus a few feet away, wedged under the edge of the gunwale. It was too much for me, and I fainted.

*****

I awoke to warmth. I was lying under cover, with a body next to mind. I couldn't open my eyes, but I reached out a hand to touch the face of the person, and found Winston's moustache. I took a shuddering breathe of relief.

"Hi," said Natla's voice, and a hand reached around behind my head. "Drink some of this."

It was cool water in a coconut shell and it tasted just wonderful.

I rubbed my eyes until I could see. Nearby Jean-Ives was lying asleep, covered by a blanket.

"What happened?"

"We were back here when I woke up," said Natla. "That was a few days ago."

"You saved my life back there."

"I guess."

"Thank you."

Natla bit her lip, and tears appeared in her eyes. She pulled her wings around herself like a shawl, and smiled. I struggled up, wincing at the frostbite burns on my skin, and embraced her. I gave her a chaste kiss.

"Thank you," I said again.

Natla wiped her snuffling nose with the heel of her hand. "I don't think I can cope with you being nice," she said.

I ruffled her golden hair. "Don't worry. I'll be back to my nasty old self any minute now."

"I look forward to it," said Natla.

I followed her outside, where I found that she had been busy. From somewhere in the interior of the island she had gathered mud, which she had sun baked into mud bricks. She had built a sort of oven with a chimney, in which she had hung fillets of fish that she'd caught in the lagoon. Her diving technique had obviously improved. She handed me a piece of the dried, smoked fish to chew. It was delicious. From the fibres of some plant or other she'd had woven a large net affair, which she had set up over our shelter. Finally, best of all, she had made some chutes from the stems of a bamboo-like plant, which were channelling water from farther up the hill into a stone-lined pool. I splashed my face in the water.

"You've been very busy", I said. "I didn't think that you effete Californian types did manual labour."

"I wasn't always a Queen," said Natla. "When I was young I was quite an ordinary Atlantean girl. We learned these sorts of things."

"What did your family do?"

Natla smiled. "My father was a soldier and my mother was a slave," she said.

"Were you married?"

"Once."

"So no children?"

Natla regarded me gravely for a second. "Yes. Not all of the same species," she said. "You killed at least one of them. Poor baby. Born prematurely so that he was in no position to defend himself. I wish I could have been there at the end."

I recalled the giant legless mutant that I had been forced to fight in the bowls of Atlantis. I looked at my hands. "I can remember when it ... when he realised he was dying," I said, gently. "He was staring down at the bullet holes in his body, and there was this expression of total astonishment on his face."

Natla gazed at the horizon without saying anything.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," I said.

"You shouldn't have shot at the Scion."

"I thought it was the right thing to do," I said. "You'd stolen it from me, you'd tried to kill me and you were gabbling on about world domination."

"I think I'll go for a swim," said Natla. "Maybe you ought to check on the ship."

For a long time I sat there thinking. I couldn't think of how I was supposed to treat Natla. It was far from clear.

So, eventually, I went to look over the _Grace de Dieu_. It was a shock. The ship had almost been ripped in two, with part of the bow missing. The upper part of the rigging and decking were burned and charred. Whatever else she was, she wasn't sea-worthy. From the look of her she might manage one or two or flights before she disintegrated entirely. I realised that we didn't really have the tools or the expertise to repair her.

I cursed my abortive expedition to map the edges of the earth. It had lead us nowhere, and it had nearly killed us.

Then I remembered that we could have any help we needed. Maybe I could bring back Noah or the man who had built the _Argo_, I thought. I searched through the ruins of the ship and all around it for an hour or more, but the golden net had disappeared. It must have fallen overboard. From now on, there would be no bringing people back. From now on, we were on our own.

*****

After a few days, it became clear that - between us, and despite everything - we were coming up with a plan.

"If _le monde_ is as it appears to be from our experiences," said Jean-Ives, "then, _donc_, there are certain consequences."

"When we were in that icy place," said Winston, "it seemed to us that the crystal sphere was sloping inwards towards the earth, not away."

I agreed. Jean-Ives drew a circle in the sand. "This is the sphere," he said. Then a third of the way from the top of the circle he draw a horizontal line. "And this is the surface of the flat earth that we are standing upon."

"And here directly above us," said Winston, drawing a blob at the zenith of the circle, "is the sun that we nearly crashed into. The cold place is at the edge of the earth."

"The sun is stationary, and so the sphere is stationary."

"We're lucky it wasn't moving when we crashed into it," I said.

"Quite so, Madam," said Winston. "The sun sets in the west and we might have been dragged below the horizon. At any rate - Jean-Ives believes that the cosmos has somehow been recreated to resemble a more primitive model. A model more in keeping with scripture."

"_C'est incroyable_," said Jean-Ives, "_mais peut-etre_ it is not possible to stage a literal resurrection without changing the laws of science."

As I digested this theory, the goosebumps rose upon my skin. If they were right then there was little prospect of escape and the fiery tortures of hell awaited me. The sheer power needed to change the world from a rational one to a metaphysical one made me feel uneasy. I wondered at the nerve that I had displayed waltzing into the court of the Basileus as if he was just another Oriental potentate.

"I think _incroyable_ is the word," I said. "So - basically we're buggered."

"Maybe not, Miss," said Winston. "Jean-Ives?"

"Under the surface of the earth is the mechanism that drives the spheres. At the moment it is idle, and time has stopped, as predicted in various religious writings."

"Time is measured in this universe by something concrete - the rising and the setting of the sun. We were wondering what might happen if we managed to restart the mechanism in reverse."

"Is it possible that we might travel backwards in time?" asked Jean-Ives. "Is it possible that we would reach a point before the current chain of events were put into motion?"

Natla had been listening to the conversation with a faint smile on her face, as if she had been listening to gifted children telling a tall story.

"It's a doozy of a plan," she said, "but there is a flaw to it. The centre of the sphere surrounding the earth must be buried thousands of miles below us. How would we get there?"

"I suppose you can think of better idea?" I said.

"Sure can," said Natla. "I think Jean-Ives' theory about us living in an ancient model of the universe is correct, and a very clever deduction."

Jean-Ives bowed. "_Merci_."

"It started me thinking about the old days in Atlantis, and an experiment that Tihocan attempted, but which he could never get to work."

"And am I going to like hearing about it?" I said.

"I don't know, but you might as well hear me out."

"Just ... go ahead."

"Tihocan tried to make a time machine," said Natla. "Unfortunately, we had never heard of the theory of relativity, or any of the aspects of modern physics. For us, we simply lived in a Newtonian universe. We knew the world was round and that the earth orbited the sun, but we didn't know about the speed of light or the mathematical unlikehood of time travel. We had the energy - Tihocan knew about the transmutation of element into element, and of mass into energy - but we didn't have the right theory. It was a bummer. Now we are living in a version of the universe where Tihocan's theories would have been correct. Maybe - now - his time machine might work."

**6. The man from Atlantis**

Approximately seventy miles northwest of the Black Sea port of Sokhumi in the country of Abkhazia lies a peninsula, the most distant part of the volcanic chain which includes the Caucasus Mountains. It does not appear on any contemporary maps, since for most of the 20th century the Black Sea fleet of the U.S.S.R. had decreed that this area of coastline was too navally sensitive to be depicted. In previous times, this area has been both a Byzantine theme - Phanagoria - and the northern reaches of a semi-mythical kingdom - Colchis, home of the Golden Fleece. In prehistoric times it was part of a mountain range that belonged first to Natla and then, after her arrest, to Tihocan. When water from the Mediterranean flooded in through the Straits of Bosphorus, the only part of this Atlantean kingdom to remain was the mountain top, with its golden pyramid buried under volcanic ash. Some time after the flood the gap between the island and the mainland has been filled in, firstly with a causeway and then - when a concerted effort to bury the pyramid was made - by a long tumulus of rock and earth, leading to the formation of a featureless peninsula with a bulbous tip. A new island, bounded on the landward site by a new sea marsh, had been created thanks to the activities of Natla Mining. In 1996 when the mountain exploded, Abkhazia was in the middle of a civil war with Eduard Shevardnadze and the government of next door Georgia, from which Abkhazia was trying to detach itself. The coastal towns were depopulated by a massive refugee exodus, and reporting on the ground was lost in the fog of war. If the satellites in orbit spotted the 'eruption', they didn't make it public knowledge, even if the public had been remotely interested in an unknown volcano in the middle of nowhere. Only Natla, with her vast wealth and her friends in high places, could have arranged to have a mine there, but then in these parts the American dollar is king. Maybe Natla Technologies had bought itself a shroud of secrecy regarding her apparent disappearance to avoid scaring the shareholders.

The last time that I'd seen the mountain it had hidden under a mushroom cloud of volcanic ash. I'd been speeding away on one of Natla's speedboats. I hadn't bothered to hang around to see what had remained, and so I wasn't sure what to expect. The golden pyramid had probably been destroyed, but since the explosion had been upwards, I expected the peninsula to still be there.

As the crumbling _Grace de Dieu_ halted above it, I could see that it resembled a cross-section of an avocado pear, with a sea-filled crater where the stone would be. There was a radiating ring of fallen tree trunks over the rest of the peninsula, along with a few years growth consisting of younger plants. In the cliff surrounding the blast crater were the remains of caves and tunnels that must have fed the base of the pyramid, the remnants of this particular piece of Atlantis. No doubt they reached far down into the rock bed under the ocean.

Planks were falling from the ship and so I landed us on a beach bounded by the charred remnants of subtropical trees. The moment the _Grace De Dieu_ touched down, it disintegrated into a pile of kindling.

"She was a good ship," said Winston.

The beach sloped up to a black cliff at the base of which was the entrance to a sea cave. Above us towered the mountain.

"If you like," said Natla, "I can fly up there and take a look."

"Is this place going to be full of giant eggs containing dangerous mutants?"

"When you pulled the plug I expect you aborted them all."

"I think we'll stick together."

"Your call."

We had with us the minimum requirements for the expedition - clothing, torches, food, ropes - but no weapons except for a spear each, as well as Natla's apparatus for generating fire balls. I realised that we were going to be completely in her hands. The alternatives were worse.

"May we have a word?" I said, drawing her to one side.

"O.K.," said Natla. "May I have one of your cigarettes?"

"I've got some questions."

Natla blew a plume of smoke, watching me in a speculative way. Then she reached into the back of her clothing. She handed an object to me. I snorted - it was the fragment of the Scion from my house.

"I guess you assumed I was buried in the States," said Natla. "Actually, I'd left instructions to be buried in the land of my birth. I was originally from Leonesse, in the northern part of the Atlantis continent, on a windy upland plateau whose remains are now called Salisbury Plain; I was born human. Much later I ordered a huge stone temple to be built there, in thanks for my good fortune to be elevated from peasant to goddess. They say America is the land of opportunity, but then they don't know about Atlantis. I own a piece of land that is on loan to the British Ministry of Defense - out of bounds to the general public. My servants buried me there with my possessions, in preparation for the afterlife."

"Your servants?" I interrupted.

"My family and all the people on my personal staff in the States. You met some of them. Buried in my tomb with me was my ornithopter. Iwas less disorientated than the rest of humanity when the Resurrection hit. I flew the hundred miles to your house in less than an hour. I lifted the Scion and I hitched a ride on your ship. I had a hunch that whatever was going on, you'd be involved."

I held up the Scion. "And what use is this?"

Natla took it, and manipulated it. "As you know, the Scion has three parts." The Scion had fallen to pieces, leaving one third intact. "This part - the only undamaged part - is the section that belonged to Tihocan. Even an itty bit of the Scion is a damned powerful thing. Tihocan's time machine was powered using his Third."

"So you planned to get us here all along?"

"No," said Natla. "I was going to hang around with you for a bit, see what your mood was, maybe persuade you to tag along with me."

I slapped the cigarette out of her mouth and pushed her to the ground.

"You're lucky that you can't be killed again," I said, holding her throat in my hands. "Why is it that whenever I begin to forgive you I find that you haven't changed one bit?"

Natla coughed, and her eyes glowed. "The feeling," she croaked, "is mutual."

I got off her.

"When will you stop manipulating people?" I said.

"And when will you stop being such a fucking psycho? Who made you queen?"

"That's fucking rich."

Natla drew herself up. "I earned my position," she said, with great gravitas. "You should have more respect."

I looked at her for a moment. Then I began to laugh, and the tears started to sparkle in her eyes.

"Dream on, your Highness," I said, and walked away.

"I hate you!" shouted Natla. "I really really hate you. You ungrateful motherfucker!"

*****

Atlantis stank.

When I'd last been there, the walls had been pulsing with blood, blood carried in a network of stone veins. It had shone with a red luminescence and had been warm to the touch. It was like the last thing that a fly sees as it drown in the clutches of a carnivorous pitcher plant, separated from the air and from freedom by a thin scarlet veined membrane. Then there'd been a continuous sound, the sort of sound that one hears when one puts earplugs in. It was a sort of pulsing white noise, the noise of liquid being forced through narrow passages by a distant heart. The continually moving walls and floors had given the whole place a sense of disorientation, and Id been loathe to walk on the surfaces of this giant biomechanical building. I'd been sweating with the weirdness of it all. My nerves had been strung out with a sort of horror. I'd wanted to pee my pants.

Then the heart had died in the explosion that had ripped the heart out of the golden pyramid. The blood had slowed and congealed. The stone had softened and decayed. Everything was a black stinking marsh dotted with gobbets of what resembled gangrenous flesh. Walk on the surface an your feet sank and then came back slimy. Kick a stone and it would quiver and a cloud of sandflies would buzz up. The air was barely breathable and made you want to vomit.

Winston put his arm round my shoulder. "Your turn," he said, passing the breathing apparatus to me so that I could take a few sweet breaths. "Are you bearing up?"

"Yes darling," I said. "This place has uncomfortable memories, you know."

"Chin up old girl. Think of the potential prize."

"It's so hot. So disgusting."

"All very Black Hole of Calcutta."

"Quite."

"Need some of that stiff upper lip."

"I could murder a cup of tea."

"Quite."

Jean-Ives was trying to shake some gore from his fingers. "_Degoutant_," he said. "Who would 'ave thought that the great Atlantis was an 'uge charnel pit?"

"_Le Trou De Hell_," I said.

"_Tres amusante_," said Jean-Ives with a faint smile. "If only we were in Paris."

I shone my torch around the cavern and upwards. On the wall, high up, were objects like giant stone roses - the beds for the giant green eggs that Atlantean monsters had hatched from. Chunky remnants of egg shell littered the ground, and there were skeletons, half covered with rotting flesh, their semi-circle of incisors gaping at me like sprung gin traps. It seemed that monsters didn't get to rise from the grave and face judgement. I envied them.

I swung the beam round and jumped out of my skin. Leaning against the wall was a centaur, its eyes glistening. Then I realised that it was dead, and that what I had seem were empty eye sockets filled with slime. I wondered how it had come to expire whilst standing up. Maybe the shock wave had killed it. The flesh underneath the transparent skin was a white as waterlogged feet.

"She's coming back," said Winston, indicating a flickering light in the distance. It bobbed up and down like Tinkerbell as Natla flapped her leathery wings. As I'd said - uncomfortable memories.

Natla landed with a squelch. Her face was sober and drawn, as if she'd just come back to find that her house had been vandalised. "It's much better up ahead - only about fifteen minutes walk. There's a hematoaulic elevator that I got working which will take us down to a less damaged area."

"Is there power?" I said.

"Yes - from the hydrothermal generators."

The hematoaulic elevator resembled a large antibiotic capsule with transparent walls within which was a ring of seats. The top half and the bottom half revolved in opposite directions to reveal a door, which shut again after us. The interior seemed to be lit by the sort of glowing things that teenagers wave around at clubs. Around us we could see black liquid.

Natla tried a button on the wall. There was a pulse of red light all around us and the elevator shuddered.

"Come on, damn you," she said. "It worked before. Damn piece of junk."

Suddenly the liquid around the capsule glowed bright red and there was the thud of a heart beat. The elevator dropped about ten yards and then slowed. A second heart beat propelled us along again, and by fits and starts we progressed downwards like a corpuscle in an atherosclerotic artery.

"_La me donne la nausee_," said Jean-Ives at one point, clamping a white hand over his mouth.

"Chill out, little bro," said Natla. "Nearly there."

"This is like _Fantastic Voyage_," whispered Winston.

"Maybe she'll get attacked by leucocytes," I said, sourly.

After many heart beats we stepped out of the device, there, looking much less gloomy than I remembered was a giant Atlantean room. Flowing through the middle in a rocky trench was a spitting river of lava. To the side was a lake enclosed in a bubble from which superheated steam was rising. There was an asthmatic wheezing from machinery situated high up in the ribcage-like ceiling - presumably the hydrothermal generators.

"Welcome to what used to be sea level," said Natla.

"_Magnifique_," said Jean-Ives. "This is all yours?"

"It used to be, but Tihocan took it over as his workshop. We're lucky he didn't fill the place with sea water. He was a real one for water features."

"And you and Tihocan and Qualopec - you were the rulers of an empire that stretched from Russia to America?"

"We were."

"I didn't completely realise before," said Jean-Ives, "but when I see all of this ..." He gestured at the giant room.

"Nearly every ancient civilisation was built out of the remains of our kingdoms," said Natla. "Science and philosophy grew out of the fragments of our knowledge that survived. Even some of the gods are based on pale memories of our rule."

"You are truly a remarkable woman," said Jean-Ives, kissing her hand.

"Well past my sell buy date, unfortunately. But thank you."

*****

Natla took the Third and placed it into a recess on the side of a Gigeresque machine. There was a deep rumbling and a rippling of glistening various surfaces, and Tihocan's time machine came to life. Embedded within the lamblike machinery was a giant green egg. A long track led to a vertical tunnel flanked with white neurons that sparkled with electricity. It disappeared into the depths.

"How does it work?" I asked Natla.

"Thought is faster than the speed of light," she said.

"So - we're time travelling using thought?"

"I'm jiving you. It's complicated, but Tihocan had a theory that every particle has a set of electromagnetic switches that 'describes' it completely. For example, one set of switches dictates 'where' it is, whilst another set of switches dictates 'what' it is. He designed this contraption to reset the switches that say 'when' it is."

"And the egg?"

"It's a time bubble. Time within it is set to stand still, regardless of what is happening outside the egg. It needs no power - the switches are set to no time until an external mechanism is activated."

"And what happened to the people inside this time capsule when it didn't work?"

Natla smiled. "Ever eaten a soft-boiled egg and found a foetus in it?" she said. "Now if you'll give me some space, I have to work out how to set this doohickey for the 21st century. Any of you dudes seen a technical manual lying around here?" I stared at her and she put her hands on her hips. "Joke."

Jean-Ives, Winston and I sat down to eat and drink. It escaped none of us that this could we our last meal together.

"This is going to be interesting," said Winston. "I can't imagine what I'm going to say to people if we suddenly pop into existence in the year 2001 after we're supposed to be dead."

"I'll just say I wasn't dead," I said.

"It's all right for you, Miss. You always did look youthful. You can get away with it. How am I going to explain my change from an old man into a young one?"

"Just tell them that you're only as young as the woman you feel."

Winston blushed. "Maybe I'll take an alias," he said, stroking his moustache. "A long lost relative. I could take my grandfather's name."

"What - Hillary? That's a bit girly, isn't it?? George is a nice name."

"The name Hillary comes from a Roman name meaning cheerful, Madam."

"I'm only teasing. If you want to be called Hillary, I promise to try not to giggle too much."

"Thank you, Miss."

I kissed him, the laughter escaping through my lips.

"I shall return to Paris and make merry with _les filles_," said Jean-Ives. "The mind of a _vieux_ in a young body. I spent too much of my real youth with the nose stuck in the book."

He and I clinked our cups of wine.

It was about an hour later that Natla finally came over to us.

"Anything to drink for the working gal?" she said, accepting some wine. "I think - I hope - I've fixed it."

She sat down and explained it to us. We would enter the egg, which was filled with a white translucent albumen-like liquid, and time would freeze. Outside, the machine would activate and we would drop backwards through time. Whatever date that we arrived we would awake to find ourselves in an historically appropriate place. Jean-Ives would find probably himself in his house in Alexandria. Winston and I would probably arrive at Croft Mansion.

"It's a hysteresis thing," said Natla. "Time will place us wherever there will be the least disruption."

"And how will we will avert the Resurrection?"br  
"You leave that to me."

I gave her a very long look. Natla returned my gaze without blinking, her bright eyes framed by her shock of blonde hair, her hands calmly folded. She didn't smile.

"I'll be watching you," I said.

"I'd appreciate that," said Natla. "Sometimes I just don't get it, do I?"

I straightened my clothes and sighed. "Let's do it," I said. I had no choice.

We stood facing the time machine whilst Natla went to a control panel. Winston took my hand.

There was a crackling sound and the edge of the giant egg parted. Inside was a curve of gelatinous substance.

"I'll unfreeze the time long enough for us to get inside," called Natla.

The egg interior shivered and green and red lights appeared inside it. Suddenly, a black claw erupted through the surface and clamped onto the rim of the shell.

We were rooted to the spot with shock. As we watched a black Atlantean soldier drone climbed out, and stood to attention in front of the machine. Natla was backing away, her wrists held up ready to fire. A second drone climbed out, and stood facing the first, one on each side of the egg opening.

Finally, a dark robotic figure wearing a conical helmet emerged. I remembered him from my Scion-induced visions. It was Tihocan.

*****

Tihocan's eyes were covered with objects that looked like a cross between Raybans and a Venetian blind. I could see eyes glinting through the slats, and hear his breathing through his mask. His voice had a very faint tinge of electronic harmonics. It was like bumping into Darth Vadar.

He bowed. "Greetings to Her Royal Highness Natla, Ruler, Empress and Goddess of the Territories of the West," he said.

Natla pulled herself together. "Greetings to His Royal Highness Tihocan, Ruler, Emperor and God of the Territories of the East," she said, with an equally elaborate bow.

"My Royal sister seems in good health," said Tihocan, extending his arms. "Will you exchange with me a fraternal kiss?"

They embraced stiffly, kissing the air next to each other's cheeks.

"You too seem to be in remarkable health, my Royal brother."

"We and our late brother Qualopec were given ample time to recover from the injuries which Your Highness' unfortunate policies inflicted upon us."

"We am glad," said Natla.

"We remember that as We stood watching Your Highness being sealed into your frozen prison - a prison that We designed to hold you for eternity - and We remarked to our brother Qualopec that no prison could last forever."

"As Your Highness can see. A remarkable turn of events."

"Our sister Natla is a clever woman, We said. Somehow someday she will be free again. He thought that We were being over cautious."

"Qualopec always had his head screwed on," said Natla, half to herself.

"Only after his spinal column was destroyed," said Tihocan.

Natla bowed her head. "We regret that."

"So We conceived this plan. We knew that when Your Highness was released you would somehow find your way here, to our time travel apparatus. We knew that Your Highness would try to find a way to make it function correctly. We knew that you would try and return to the Sacred Regality of Atlantis."

"You have conceived of a masterly if obsessive strategy to entrap Us, my Royal brother. You have even contrived to construct an empty tomb for yourself, and hidden the Scion fragment within."

"We were the outer wall of your prison. The ward of evil can take no risks."

They bowed to each other with deep solemnity. I was reminded of two pompous samurai about to chop each other into cat food. I was about to intervene, when I noticed that Tihocan had not straightened up from his bow. At the same moment, there was a screech from one of the Atlantean drones. The two monsters were holding their faces and sinking slowly to their knees.

I grabbed Winston and Jean-Ives by the arms.

"Get to cover," I shouted.

The Atlantean drones were disintegrating as we watched. It was as if a massive speeded up decaying process was taking place. Their skin became wrinkled and grey, and their limbs became stunted. Soon they resembled the tiny shrunken mannikins that head hunters make. With a last cry they disintegrated into gobbets of flying flesh and bursts of flame.

Natla watched this performance with an open mouth and when it was over she burst out into a shocked laugh.

"What irony," she said. "The time machine didn't used to work but now it might. The time bubble used to work fine, but now it doesn't."

In response Tihocan's mechanical hand sprang out and grabbed Natla by the throat. His robotic suit straightened slowly, lifting her off her feet.

His voice was weak and distorted by electronic crackles. "Ah, my sister," he said. "How you love to laugh at the misfortunes of others."

Natla was thrashing her legs, but she didn't seem to have the wit to unleash a fire ball. Fortunately at that moment, Tihocan's time ran out. His suit fell into sections, dumping Natla on to the ground.

We ran over to help her.

"Why does everybody do that?" she croaked.

*****

I remember a great terror as we immersed ourselves inside the egg. I forced myself to open my eyes. If I was going to die I wanted to see death coming. Natla squeezed herself in amongst us, and the egg sealed shut, leaving us in stifling darkness. I tried to find Winston, but I couldn't. I imagined my flesh rotting and falling from my bones.

Then the walls of the egg became transparent and we were falling. I could see the white neuronal electricity flashing around us and then, in a second we were free. Rushing above us was the underside of the flat earth, and far below us in space was the cogs of a gigantic machine, the mechanism that turned the spheres of the heavens. I lost all awareness at that point.

*****

When I came to, there was something metallic in my mouth. I could smell countryside and feel the whisper of a breeze.

Slowly I opened my eyes. I was seated on the pedestal of my statues in the grounds of the Croft Mansion, with a shotgun barrel shoved between my teeth.

I flung the gun away and wept with joy, embracing the grass and shouting.

I ran towards to the house, and an athletic figure was sprinting towards me.

"Winston!" I shouted, leaping into his arms.

"If Madam doesn't mind," he said, after kissing me, "I'd rather be addressed as Hilary."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Man."

"And maybe when in the presence of strangers we should maintain a respectful master/servant relationship."

I hugged him tight. "We did it!" I shouted. "We really did it!"

"I should put the kettle on to celebrate," he said.

We stood for a moment looking into the setting sun. Amidst the clouds and the pink light, I could almost imagine the ghost of Natla sneaking into the City of Angels and discovering the Trumpet of the Last Judgement.

"No wonder she was reluctant to go back," I said.

"I'm sorry, Miss?"

"It doesn't matter any more," I said. "None of it does. I'm retiring."

We strolled back towards the house.

"It's time that I settled down. Who knows, maybe I could start a family."

"Maybe you could Madam."

"They say the best time to have a baby is when you're in your early twenties. I buggered it up the first time."

Winston laughed. "Indeed."

"Perhaps Jean-Ives would like to be a godparent?"

"I could try and raise him on the telephone if you have the number."

At the doorway of the Croft Mansion I took one last look at the heavens.

"Life is for the living," I said to the sky. "Fuck the dead."

**The End**

NOTICE: This story is a work of fiction. Lara Croft, her likeness, and the Tomb Raider games are all copyright of Core Design and EIDOS Interactive. There is no challenge to these copyrights intended by this story, as it is a non-sanctioned, unofficial work of my own.


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